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Manufactured in the United States of America 
Printed by Parkway Printing Company Bound by H. Wolff 


Ernest Hemingway, who has been a foreign corre¬ 
spondent in his time, is, in spite of his comparative 
youth, one of the best “star reporters” now practising 
in English, and his first successful novel, “The Sun 
Also Rises,” among other things, is an example of 
first-rate reporting. It is more than that, of course, 
but its reportorial quality is outstanding, even if quali¬ 
ties deeper than mere reporting can reach give it power 
and singularity. 

The dialogue for which Hemingway has achieved a 
reputation and which is beautifully exemplified in this 
book, is an instance of good reporting. It is not, as 
has been sometimes said, a naturalistic dialogue. Let 
the reader test it in the succeeding pages. He will see 
that the tricks of repetition and suspension—the col- 
oquial rhythms—the unmarked transitions from speech 
to thought—are by no means transcripts from life. The 
author has listened almost painfully to “Jake” and 
“Bret” and “Bill” to get the flavor of their speech, their 
own particular rhythms, their methods of expressive¬ 
ness. He will repeat a triviality if that triviality has 
life in it, and omit words, sentences, whole minutes of 
mere talk. 

It is a like nice selectiveness, ais of a reporter who 
must file his story in the minimum of words, that 
^uj'mingway employs in his descriptions. Note that in 
and si ;ervedl y f amous scenes in the bull-fight ring, he 



never stops to outline a panorama but keeps the de¬ 
scription, like the matador, close to the bull. The 
simplicity of these descriptions, as of scenes seen by 
simple-minded people, is delusive. In that simplicity, 
sometimes halting, there is art. It is like wit from a 
stammering man. It is the residuum after the inessen¬ 
tial—patter, convention, rhetoric—has been cleared 

There is, nevertheless, a genuine naivete in Heming¬ 
way’s work. He clearly prefers people who are either 
naive, or so direct in their desires and emotions as to 
break into naivete under the slightest stress. To call 
him—as one critic has—the most sophisticated writer 
in English seems to me nonsense. To be skilful is not 
to be sophisticated. But this trait of naivete is closely 
related to the very raison d’etre of Hemingway and 
must be discussed much more broadly than if it were 
merely technique. 

It is not necessary to read the quotations from 
Gertrude Stein and Ecclesiastes with which “The Sun 
Also Rises” begins in order to guess early at the unify¬ 
ing principle of the book. It is, stated crudely, a lost 
generation which he describes, a--JKatYmuDd^dj_war- 
distracted generation to w hom events seem a meaning- 
Tesyround of ins ignifi cance, a generation hurt in its 
nerves and then atrophied by being pulled loose from 
all supports of faith and hope. 1 For Lady Brett Ashley’s 
ggrtfer life', see, perhaps, the hospital experience of the 
heroine of “Farewell to Arms” minus its expiatory 
close. She is a good girl who has lost her controls. 
Her vices are all expressive of something deep in char 
acter itself. She never drinks because she is 
Her great moment of moral sensitiveness com* not 



when she leaves Mike to follow her passionate desire 
for the bull-fighter, but when she gives up her matador 
that she may not taint his youth and strong will for 
living with her own abandoning of hope and purpose. 
So with Mike, the careless bankrupt who handles life 
like a rest area back of the lines, with Robert Cohn, 
the Jew, with only an inferiority complex to live on, 
with Bill, the good-natured drunk of pre-war, now 
grown philosophical, with Jake, the teller of the tale, 
trying to carry on into life the bad joke of sterility 
from a wound in war;—they are all, to put it crudely, 
a lost generation. 

But Hemingway's attempt to describe with a re^ 
porter's faithfulness the wreckage of an incoherent time 
has become much more than good journalism because 
of the humor and pity of his view. Viewed in cold 
realism, Lady Brett Ashley is a drunken wanton who 
cannot resist even for an instant the least of her desires, 
but Hemingway sees in her what Jake saw, a good girl 
wrecked by frustration. And what a tender study is 
Jake himself; under the toughness, the badinage, the 
devil-may-care is the friend to be loved,—a lost life 
determined to salvage something, and friendship first 
of all. Indeed, it is not the “hard-boiled" that im¬ 
presses me in the work of Hemingway, any more than 
the sophisticated, but rather the feeling for pathos with¬ 
out sentimentality, as in the study of Manuel, the bull¬ 
fighter, in the short story, “The Undefeated," and that 
death in the hospital in “A Farewell to Arms." 

Perhaps this tenderness in a writer who chooses by 
preference for his subjects war, prize-fighting, gunmen, 
and sprees, explains his taste for the naive in manners 
and simplicity in character. More probably it is the 



other way round. Hemingway, as I read him, came out 
of his war experiences and his residence, unrooted, in a 
demoralized, post-war Europe, with that sense of a 
world in an anarchy of morals and desires so common 
in the war generation, but with something more that 
made for literature. He longs for stabilities, for things 
to trust in, and the longing makes him positive and 
appealing where other writers of his age and time are 
negative or merely sensational. 

Hence his passion for the simple traits of honest 
friendship which recur in his stories as often as phrases 
in his dialogue. Some inarticulate but genuine emo¬ 
tional relationship between the characters seem to be 
the outcome of most of his conversations. Jake is 
a bad Catholic, but when he prays it is touching. Brett 
is enamored of Pedro Romero’s clean and lasting pas¬ 
sion for the bulls as much as of him. Poor Robert 
Cohn’s tragedy is that of a soul always in escape; 
Brett’s passing love means too much to him. He in¬ 
sists upon duration where there can be only flux. And 
Mike, behind whose past one seems always to hear the 
rattle of machine guns and the dull crumps of an end¬ 
less war, has come back to the constancies of childhood; 
cross because he is tired and sick of playing and there 
is nothing else he can do. 

More than style, more than a reporter’s skill, must 
therefore be attributed to Ernest Hemingway in order 
to account for the impression he made, with only three 
major books to his credit, and especially the impression 
he has made upon his own generation. For many of 
them he is clearly spokesman and a model. 

He must be credited with what so many modern 
novelists lack, a theme (not a thesis) so powerful and 



compelling that it has used every ounce of his reporter’s 
skill, and so distinctive as to require a distinctive style 
to express it. The broken (yet rhythmic) sentences, 
the simple (yet expressive) vocabulary, the vivid sense 
appeals of the background description, are Heming¬ 
way’s fashion of getting into prose his drifting souls 
who have lost their moorings, yet kept the enduring 
simplicities of love, affection, loyalty, mirth, and sud¬ 
den hate. 

It is a narrow art, limited by the short duration and \ 
unnatural character of the spiritual and moral anarchies | 
which succeed national wars, and by the highly special¬ 
ized qualities of the virtues possible to lost souls. In 
“The Sun Also Rises” there is, frankly, only one char¬ 
acter indubitably worth saving, and that is Jake. It 
was a triumph for the author and an encouragement to 
his friends when in “A Farewell to Arms” Hemingway 
took two broken and disillusioned drifters and lifted 
them into imaginative worth. That feat proved that 
“The Sun Also Rises” was not a “stunt” succeeding by 
the sensational futility of the life portrayed, and the 
virtuosity of such descriptions as the chapters on the 
fiesta. “A Farewell to Arms” showed that if Heming¬ 
way in this earlier book has an artist’s love for futility, 
it is because, being born when he was, he had first to 
learn to fit words to that theme. Whether as a novelist 
he will equal in breadttr'what he already possesses in 
intensity, it is even yet impossible to say, but he is 
already among those who have achieved. The sun is 
setting upon his lost generation, but here is a record, 
brilliant and pathetic both. 

New York 
January, 1930 

Henry Seidel Canby. 



"You are all a lost generation.” 

—Gertrude Stein in conversation. 

1 " One generation passeth away, and another generation 
\ cometh; but the earth abideth forever. . . . The sun 
Jalso ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to 
(die place where he arose. . . . The wind goeth to¬ 
ward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it 
whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth 
again according to his circuits. ... AM the rivers 
run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place 
from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.” 


Robert Cohn was once middleweight boxing cham¬ 
pion of Princeton. Do not think that I am very much 
impressed by that as a boxing title, but it meant a lot to 
Cohn. He cared nothing for boxing, in fact he disliked 
it, but he learned it painfully and thoroughly to counter¬ 
act the feeling of inferiority and shyness he had felt on 
being treated as a Jew at Princeton. There was a certain 
inner comfort in knowing he could knock down anybody 
who was snooty to him, although, being very shy and a 
thoroughly nice boy, he never fought except in the gym. 
He was Spider Kelly’s star pupil. Spider Kelly taught all 
his young gentlemen to box like featherweights, no mat¬ 
ter whether they weighed one hundred and five or two 
hundred and five pounds. But it seemed to fit Cohn. 
He was really very fast. He was so good that Spider 
promptly overmatched him and got his nose perma¬ 
nently flattened. This increased Cohn’s distaste for 
boxing, but it gave him a certain satisfaction of some 
strange sort, and it certainly improved his nose. In his 
last year at Princeton he read too much and took to 
wearing spectacles. I never met any one of his class who 
remembered him. They did not even remember that he | 
was middleweight boxing champion. _ 

I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when 
their stories hold together, and I always had a suspicion 
that perhaps Robert Cohn had never been middleweight 
boxing champion, and that perhaps a horse had stepped 
on his face, or that maybe his mother had been fright¬ 
ened or seen something, or that he had, maybe, bumped 




into something as a young child, but I finally had some¬ 
body verify the story from Spider Kelly. Spider Kelly 
not only remembered Cohn. He had often wondered 
what had become of him. 

Robert Cohn was a member, through his father, of 
one of the richest Jewish families in New York, and 
through his mother of one of the oldest. At the military 
" school where he prepped for Princeton, and played a 
very good end on the football team, no one had made 
him race-conscious. No one had ever made him feel he 
was a Jew, and hence any different from anybody else, 
until he went to Princeton. He was a nice bov, a friendly 
boy, and very shy, and it made him bitter.' He took it 
out in boxing, and he came out of Princeton with pain¬ 
ful self-consciousness and the flattened nose, and was 
married by the first girl who was nice to him. He was 
married five years, had three children, lost most of the 
fifty thousand dollars his father left him, the balance of 
the estate having gone to his mother, hardened into a 
rather unattractive mouj/d under domestic unhappiness 
with a rich wife; and just when he had made up his 
mind to leave his wife she left him and went off with a 
miniature-painter. As he had been thinking for months 
about leaving his wife and had not done it because it 
would be too cruel to deprive her of himself, her de¬ 
parture was a very healthful shock. 

The divorce was arranged and Robert Cohn went out 
to the Coast. In California he fell among literary peo¬ 
ple and, as he still had a little of the fifty thousand left; 
in a short time he was backing a review of the Arts. 
The review commenced publication in Carmel, California, 
and finished in Provincetown, Massachusetts By that 
time Cohn, who had been regarded purely as an angel, 
and whose name had appeared on the editorial page 



merely as a member of the advisory board, had become 
the sole editor. It was his money and he discovered he 
liked the authority of editing. He was sorry when the 
magazine became too expensive and he had to give it up. 

By that time, though, he had other things to worry 
about. He had been taken in hand by a lady who hoped 
to rise with the magazine. She was very forceful, and 
Cohn never had a chance of not being taken in hand. 
Also he was sure that he loved her. When this lady saw 
that the magazine was not going to rise, she became a 
little disgusted with Cohn and decided that she might 
as well get what there was to get while there was still 
something available, so she urged that they go to Eu¬ 
rope, where Cohn could write. They came to Europe, 
where the lady had been educated, and stayed three 
years. During these three years, the first spent in 
travel, laslNtwo in Paris, Robert Cohn had two 
friendsfBraddojljS and myself. Braddocks was his lit¬ 
erary was his tennis friend. 

The lady who had him, her pame was Frances, found 
toward the end of the second year that her looks were 
going, and her attitude toward Robert changed from one 
of careless possession and exploitation to the absolute 
determination that he should marry her. During this 
time Robert’?/mother had settled an allowance on him, 
about three hundred dollars a month. During two years 
and a half I do not belieye that Robert Cohn looked at 
another woman. He was fairly happy, except that, like 
many people living in Europe, he would rather h ave 
been in America, and he had discovered writing. He 
wrote a novel, and it was not really such a bad novel 
as the critics later called it, although it was a very 
poor novel. He read many books, played bridge, played 
tennis, and boxed at a local gymnasium. 



I first became aware of his lady’s attitude toward him 
one night after the three of us had dined together. We 
had dined at l’Avenue’s and afterward went to the Cafe 
de Versailles for coffee. We had several fines after the 
coffee, and I said I must be going. Cohn had been talk¬ 
ing about the two of us going off somewhere on a week¬ 
end trip. He wanted to get out of town and get in a 
good walk. I suggested we fly to Strasbourg and walk 
up to Saint Odile, or somewhere or other in Alsace. “I 
know a girl in Strasbourg who can show us the town ” 
I said. 

Somebody kicked me under the table. I thought it 
was accidental and went on: “She’s been there two 
years and knows everything there is to know about the 
town. She’s a swell girl.” 

I was kicked again under the table and, looking, saw 
Frances, Robert’s lady, her chin lifting and her face 

“Hell,” I said, “why go to Strasbourg? We could go 
up to Bruges, or to the Ardennes.” 

Cohn looked relieved. I was not kicked again. I said 
good-night and went out. Cohn said he wanted to buy 
a paper and would walk to the corner with me. “For 
God’s sake,” he said, “why did you say that about that 
girl in Strasbourg for? Didn’t you see Frances?” 

“No, why should I? If I know an American girl that 
lives in Strasbourg what the hell is it to Frances?” 

“It doesn’t make any difference. Any girl. I couldn’t 
go, that would be all.” 

“Don’t be silly.” 

“You don’t know Frances. Any girl at all. Didn’t 
you see the way she looked?” 

“Oh, well,” I said, “let’s go to Senlis.” 

“Don’t get sore.” 


“I’m not sore. Senlis is a good place and we can stay 
at the Grand Cerf and take a hike in the woods and come 

“Good, that will be fine.” 

“Well, I’ll see you to-morrow at the courts,” I said. 

“ Good-night, Jake,” he said, and started back to the 


“You forgot to get your paper,” I said. 

“That’s so.” He walked with me up to the kiosque 
at the comer. “ You are not sore, are you, Jake ?” He 
turned with the paper in his hand. 

“No, why should I be?” 

“See you at tennis,” he said. I watched him walk 
back to the caf6 holding his paper. I rather liked him 
and evidently she led him quite a life. 


That winter Robert Cohn went over to America with 
his novel, and it was accepted by a fairly good publisher. 
His going made an awful row I heard, and I think that 
was where Frances lost him, because several wo men were 
nic e to him in New York, and when he came back he 
was quite changed. He was more enthusiastic about 
America than ever, and _he was not so simple , and he 
was noL -SQ-mce ^ The p ublishers had praised .his nnyd 
p retty highly and it r aJ^rjwen^To4ns^head. Then sev¬ 
eral women had put themselves out to be nice to him, 
and his horizons had all shifted. For four years his hori¬ 
zon had been absolutely limited to his wife. For three 
years, or almost three years, he had never seen beyond 
Frances. I am sure he had never been in love in his life. 

He had married on the rebound from the rotten time 
he had in college, and Frances took him on the rebound 
from his discovery that he had not been everything to 
his first wife. He was not in lave-yet but he realized 
t hat he was^ amaltractive^^ auaniitv-ta women, and that 
the fact of a woman caring for him and wanting to live 
with him was not simply a divine miracle. This changed 
him so that he was not so pleasant to have around. 
Also, playing for higher stakes than he could afford in 
some rather steep bridge games with his New York con¬ 
nections, he had held cards and won several hundred 
dollars. It made him rather vain of his bridge game, and 
me talked several times of how a man could always make 
a living at bridge if he were ever forced to. 

Jhen there was another thing. He had been reading 
W. H. Hudson. That sounds like an innocent occupation, 




but Cohn had read and reread “The Purple Land.” 
“The Purple Land” is a very sinister book if read too 
late in life. It recou nts splendid imaginary amorous ad ¬ 
ventures of a perfect English gentleman in an intensely 
romantic land, the scenery of which is very well de¬ 
scribed. For a man to take it at thirty-four as a guide¬ 
book to what life holds is about as safe as it would be 
for a man of the same age to enter Wall Street direct 
from a French convent, equipped with a complete set of 
the more practical Alger books. Cohn, I believe, took 
every word of “The Purple Land” as literally as though 
it had been an R. G. Dun report. You understand me, 
he made some reservations, but on the whole the book 
to him was sound. It was all that was needed to set him 
off. I did not realize the extent to which it had set him 
off until one day he came into my office. 

“Hello, Robert,” I said. “Did you come in to cheer 
me up?” 

“Would you like to go to South America, Jake?” he 


“Why not?” 

“ I don’t know. I never wanted to go. Too expensive. 
You can see all the South Americans you want in Paris 

“They’re not the real South Americans.” 

“They look awfully real to me.” 

I had a boat train to catch with a week’s mail stories, 
and only half of them written. 

“Do you know any dirt?” I asked. 


“None of your exalted connections getting divorces?” 

“No; listen, Jake. If I handled both our expenses, 
would you go to South America with me?” 



“Why me^’ 

“You can talk Spanish. And it would be more fun 
with two of us.” 

“No,” I said, “I like this town and I go to Spain in 
the summer-time.” 

“All my life I’ve wanted to go on a trip like that,” 
Cohn said. He sat down. “HI be too old before I can 
ever do it.” 

“Don’t be a fool,” I said. “You can go anywhere you 
want. You’ve got plenty of money.” 

know. But I can’t get started.” f"C 

“Cheer up,” I said. “ All countries look just like the 
moving pictures.” 

But I felt sorry for him. He had it badly. 

“I caiYt stand it to think my life is going so fast and! 
|f\ I’m not^readixiivipg -it? y 9C j 

“Nobody^ever lives their life all the way up except 

^I’ffr nuT interested in bull-fighters. That’s an ab¬ 
normal life. I want to go back in the country in South 
America. We could have a great trip.” 

“Did you ever think about going to British East 
Africa to shoot?” 

“No, I wouldn’t like that.” 

“I’d go there with you.” 

“No; that doesn’t interest me.” 

“That’s because you never read a book about it. Go 
on and read a book all full of love affairs with the beauti¬ 
ful shiny black princesses.” 

“I want to go to South America.” 

He had a hard, Jewish, stubborn streak. 

“Come on down-stairs and have a drink.” 

“Aren’t you working?” 

“No,” I said. We went down the stairs to the caf£ 



on the ground floor. 1 had discovered that was the best 
way to get rid of friends. Once you had a drink all you 
had to say was: “Well, I’ve got to get back and get off 
some cables,” and it was done. It is very important to ; 
discover graceful exits like that in the newspaper busi- 
ness, where it is such an important part of the ethics 
that you should never seem to be working. Anyway, we 
went down-stairs to the bar and had a whiskey and soda. 
Cohn looked at the bottles in bins around the wall, 
j frhis is a good pla ce,” he s aid 2* 

“There’s a lot of liquor,” I agreed. nL~— 

“Listen, Jake,” he leaned forward on the bar. “Don’t 

you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by ^ 
and you’re not taking advantage of it? Do you realize 
you’ve lived nearly half the time you have to live al¬ 

“Yes, every once in a while.” 

“Do you know that in about thirty-five years more 

we’ll be dead?” / 

“What the hell, Robert,” I said. “What the hell. . 

“I’m serious.” _ 

“It’s_ one t hing I don’t worry about,” I said. "T 
“You ought to.” 

“I’ve had plenty to woriy about one time or other. 
I’m through worrying.’*./ 

“Well, I want to go to South America.” 

“Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn’t 
make any difference. I’ve tried all that. You can t g et 
away from yourself by m oving from one place to an ¬ 
oth er, There’s nothing to tha t.” 

" “But you’ve never been to South America.” 

“South America hell! If you went there the way you 
feel now it would be exactly the same. This is a good 
town. Why don’t you start living your life in Paris?” 



“I’m sick of Paris, and I’m sick of the Quarter.” 

“Stay away from the Quarter. Cruise around by 
yourself and see what happens to you.” 

“Nothing happens to me. I walked alone all one 
night and nothing happened except a bicycle cop stopped 
me and asked to see my papers.” 

“Wasn’t the town nice at night?” 

“I don’t care for Paris.” 

So there you were. I was sorry for him, but it was 
not a thing you could do anything about, because right 
away you ran up against the two stubbornnesses: South 
America could fix it and he did not like Paris. He got 
the first idea out of a book, and I suppose the second 
came out of a book too. 

“Well,” I said, “I’ve got to go up-stairs and get off 
some cables.” J , 

“Do you really have to go?” 

“Yes, I’ve got to get these cables off.” 

“Do you mind if I come up and sit around the office?” 

“No, come on up.” 

He sat in the outer room and read the papers, and the 
Editor and Publisher and I worked hard for two hours. 
Then I sorted out the carbons, stamped on a by-line, 
put the stuff in a couple of big manila envelopes and 
rang for a boy to take them to the Gare St. Lazare. I 
went out into the other room and there was Robert 
Cohn asleep in the big chair. He was asleep with his 
head on his arms. I did not like to wake him up, but I 
wanted to lock the office and shove off. I put my hand 
,on his shoulder. He shook his head. “I can’t do it,” 
he said, and put his head deeper into his arms. “I can’t 
do it. Nothing will make me do it.” 

“Robert,” I said, and shook him by the shoulder. 
He looked up. He smiled and blinked. 


“Did I talk out loud just then?” 

“Something. But it wasn’t dear.” 

“God, what a rotten dream!” 

“Did the typewriter put you to sleep?” 

“Guess so. I didn’t sleep all last night.” 

“What was the matter?” 

“Talking,” he said. \/ 

I could picture it. I have a rotten habit of picturing 
the bedroom scenes of my friends. We went out to the 
Cafe Napolitain to have an aperitif and watch the eve¬ 
ning crowd on the Boulevard. 





•' ' l c_ 


It was a. warm spring night and I sat at a table on 
the terrace of the Napolitain after Robert had gone, 
hatching it get dark and the electric signs come on, and 
the red and green stop-and-go traffic-signal, and the 
crowd going by, and the horse-cats clippety-clopping 
along at the edge of the solid taxi traffic, and the poulss 
going by, singly and in pairs, looking for the evening 
meal. I watched a good-looking girl walk past the table 
and watched her go up the street and lost sight of her, 
and watched another, and then saw the first one coming 
back again. She went by once more and I caught her 
eye, and she came over and sat down at the table. The 
waiter came up. 

“Well, what will you drink?” I asked. 


“That’s not good for little girls.” 

“Little girl yourself. Dites gan;on un pemod.” 

“A pernod for me, too.” 

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Going on a 

“Sure. Aren’t you?” 

“I don't know. You never know in this town.” 

“Don’t you like Paris?” 


“Why don’t you go somewhere else?” 

“Isn’t anywhere else.” 

“You’re happy, all right.” 

“Happy, hell!” 

Pemod is greenish imitation absinthe. When you add 



water it turns milky. It tastes like licorice and it has a 
good uplift, but it drops you just as far. We sat and 
drank it, and the girl looked sullen. _ 

“Well,” I said, “are you going to buy me a dinner?” ‘ •; 
She grinned and I saw why she made a point of not 
laughing. With her mouth closed she was a rather 
pretty girl. I paid for the saucers and we walked out to 
the street. I hailed a horse-cab and the driver pulled!' 
up at the curb. Settled back in the slow, smoothly rolling 
fiacre we moved up the Avenue de l’Opera, passed the 
locked doors of the shops, their windows lighted, the 
Avenue broad and shiny and almost deserted. The cab 
passed the New York Herald bureau with the window 
full of clocks. 

“What are all the clocks for?” she asked. 

“They show the hour all over America.” 

“Don’t kid me.” 

We turned off the Avenue up the rue des Pyramides, 
through the traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, and through a 
dark gate into the Tuileries. She cuddled against me 
and I put my arm around her. She looked up to be 
kissed. She touched me with one hand and I put hei 
hand away. 

“Never mind.” & 

“What’s the matter? You sick?” ^ 

“Yes^”</>. .. . 

4Ev erybody’s sick. I’m «irk r too.” --<k /K 
We came out of the Tuileries into the light and crossed 
the Seine and then turned up the Rue des Saints Peres. 
“You oughtn’t to drink pernod if you’rej>ick.”*% t", 

“You neither.” ^ ^ * 

“It doesn’t make any difference with me. It doesn 1 
make any difference with a woman.” 

“What are you called? ,, Jc,*U ^ 



“Georgette. How are you called?” 


“That’s a Flemish name.” 

“American too.” 

“You’re not Flamand?” 

“No, American.” 

“Good, I detest Flamands.” 

{ By this time we were at the restaurant. I called to 
the cocker to stop. We got out and Georgette did not 
like the looks of the place. “This is no great thing of a 

“No,” I said. “Maybe you would rather go to 
Foyot’s. Why don’t you keep the cab and go on ? ” 

I had picked her up because of a vague sentimental 
idea that it would be nice to eat with some one. It was 
a long time since I had dined with a poule, and I had 
forgotten how dull it could be. We went into the res¬ 
taurant, passed Madame Lavigne at the desk and into 
a little room. Georgette cheered up a little under the 

“It isn’t bad here,” she said. “It isn’t chic, but the 
food is all right.” 

“Better than you eat in Liege.” JQ 

“Brussels, you mean.”^7^ 

We had another bottle of wine and Georgette made 
a joke. She smiled and sh owed all her had teeth and 
we touched glasses. “You’re not a bad type,” she said. 
“It’s a shame you’re sick. We get on well. What’s the 
matter with you, anyway?”^ 

“I got hurt in the war,” I said. 

“Oh. that dirty war.” 4 4 

j We would probably have gone on and discussed the 
' war and agreed that it was in reality a calamity for 
civilization, and perhaps would have been better avoided. 



I was bored enough. Just then from the other room 
£ 35 £Tone called: “ Barnes! I say,Barnes! Jacob Barnes! ” 

“It’s a friend calling me,” I explained, and went out. 

There was Braddocks at a big table with a party: 
Cohn, Frances Clyne, Mrs. Braddocks, several people I 
did not know. 

“You’re coming to the dance, aren’t you?” Brad¬ 
docks asked. 

“What dance?” 

“Why, the dancings. Don’t you know we’ve revived 
them?” Mrs. Braddocks put in. 

“You must come, Jake. We’re all going, Frances 
said from the end of the table. She was tall and had a 

“Of course, he’s coming,” Braddocks said. Come in 
and have coffee with us, Barnes.” 


“And bring your friend,” said Mrs. Braddocks laugh¬ 
ing. She was a Canadian and had all their easy social 

“ Thanks, we’ll be in,” I said. I went back to the small 

“Who are your friends?” Georgette asked. 

“Writers and artists.” 

“There are lots of those on this side of the river.’' 

“Too many.” 

“I think so. Still, some of them make money.” 

“Oh, yes.” „ 

We finished the meal and the wine. “Come on, I 
said. “We’re going to have coffee with the others.” 

Georgette opened her bag, made a few passes at her 
face as she looked in the little mirror, re-defined her lips 
with the lip-stick, and straightened her hat. 

“ Good,” she said. 



We went into the room full of people and Braddocks 
and the men at his table stood up. 

“I wish to present my fiancee, Mademoiselle Geor¬ 
gette Leblanc,” I said. Georgette smiled that wonder¬ 
ful smile, and we shook hands all round. 

“Are you related to Georgette Leblanc, the singer?” 
Mrs. Braddocks asked. 

“Connais pas,” Georgette answered. 

“But you have the same name,” Mrs. Braddocks in¬ 
sisted cordially. 

“No,” said Georgette. “Not at all. My name is 

“But Mr. Barnes introduced you as Mademoiselle 
Georgette Leblanc. Surely he did,” insisted Mrs. Brad¬ 
docks, who in the excitement of talking French was 
liable to have no idea what she was saying. 

“He’s a fool,” Georgette said. 

“Oh, it was a joke, then,” Mrs. Braddocks said. 

“Yes,” said Georgette. “To laugh at.” 

“Did you hear that, Henry?” Mrs. Braddocks called 
down the table to Braddocks. “Mr. Barnes introduced 
his fiancee as Mademoiselle Leblanc, and her name is 
actually Hobin.” 

“Of course, darling. Mademoiselle Hobin, I’ve known 
her for a very long time.” 

“Oh, Mademoiselle Hobin,” Frances Clyne called, 
speaking French very rapidly and not seeming so proud 
and astonished as Mrs. Braddocks at its coming out 
really French. “Have you been in Paris long? Do you 
like it here? You love Paris, do you not?” 

“Who’s she?” Georgette turned to me. “Do I have 
to talk to her?” 

She turned to Frances, sitting smiling, her hands 
folded, her head poised on her long neck, her lips pursed 
ready to start talking again. 



“No, I don’t like Paris. It’s expensive and dirty.” 

“Really? I find it so extraordinarily clean. One of 
the cleanest cities in all Europe.” 

“I find it dirty.” 

“How strange! But perhaps you have not been here 
very long.” 

“I’ve been here long enough.” 

“But it does have nice people in it. One must grant 

that.” . 

Georgette turned to me. “You have nice friends. 

Frances was a little drunk and would have liked to 
have kept it up but the coffee came, and Lavigne with 
the liqueurs, and after that we all went out and started 
for Braddocks’s dancing-club. 

The dancing-dub was a bal musette in the rue de la 
Montagne Sainte Genevieve. Five nights a week the 
working people of the Pantheon quarter danced there. 
One night a week it was the dancing-club. On Monday 
nights it was closed. When we arrived it was quite 
empty, except for a policeman sitting near the door, the 
wife of the proprietor back of the zinc bar, and the pro¬ 
prietor himself. The daughter of the house came down¬ 
stairs as we went in. There were long benches, and tables 
ran across the room, and at the far end a dancing-floor. 

“I wish people would come earlier,” Braddocks said. 
The daughter came up and wanted to know what we 
would drink. The proprietor got up on a high stool be¬ 
side the dancing-floor and began to play the accordion. 
He had a string of bells around one of his ankles and 
beat time with his foot as he played. Every one danced- 
It was hot and we came off the floor perspiring. 

“My God,” Georgette said. “What a box to sweat 


“It’s hot.” 

“Hot, my God!” 




“Take off your hat.” 

“That’s a good idea.” 

Some one asked Georgette to dance, and I went over 
' t0 the bar - If was really very hot and the accordion 
music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer 
standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of 
wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the 
steep street. They both stopped in front of the Bal. 
A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in 
their shirt-sleeves, got out. I could see their hands and 
newly washed, wavy hair in the light from the door. 

| Pieman standing by the door looked at me and 
smiled. They came in. As they went in, under the light 
I saw white hands, wavy hair, white faces, grimacing 
gesturing, talking. With them was Brett. She looked 
very lovely and she was very much with them. 

One of them saw Georgette and said: “I do declare. 

T here is an actual harlot. I’m going to dance with her, 
Lett. You watch me.” 

The tall, dark one, called Lett, said: “Don’t you be 

The wavy blond one answered: “Don’t you worry 
dear. And with them was Brett. ’ 

I was very angry. Somehow they always made me 
angry I know they are supposed to be amusing, and 
you should be tolerant, but I wanted to swing on one 
any one, anything to shatter that superior, simpering 
composure. Instead, I walked down the street and had 
a beer at the bar at the next Bal. The beer was not good 
and I had a worse cognac to take the taste out of my 
mouth. When I came back to the Bal there was a crowd 
on the floor and Georgette was dancing with the tall 
blond youth, who danced big-hippily, carrying his head 
on one side, his eyes lifted as he danced. As soon as the 


music stopped another one of them asked her to dance 
She had been taken up by them. I knew then that 
they would all dance with her. They are like that. 

I sat down at a table. Cohn was sitting there. Frances 
was dancing. Mrs. Braddocks brought up somebody 
and introduced him as Robert Prentiss. He was from 
New York by way of Chicago, and was a rising new 
novelist. He had some sort of an English accent. I 
asked him to have a drink. 

“Thanks so much,” he said, “I’ve just had one.” 

“Have another.” 

“Thanks, I will then.” 

We got the daughter of the house over and each had 
a fine d I’eau. 

“You’re from Kansas City, they tell me,” he said. 


“Do you find Paris amusing?” 



I was a little drunk. Not drunk in any positive sense 
but j'ust enough to be careless. 

“For God’s sake,” I said, “yes. Don’t you?” 

“Oh, how charmingly you get angry,” he said. “I 
wish I had that faculty.” 

I got up and walked over toward the dancing-floor. 
Mrs. Braddocks followed me. “Don’t be cross with 
Robert,” she said. “He’s still only a child, you know.” 

“I wasn’t cross,” I said. “I just thought perhaps I 
was going to throw up.” 

“Your fiancee is having a great success,” Mrs. Brad- 
dt>cks looked out on the floor where Georgette was 
daj sing in the arms of the tall, dark one, called Lett. 

rIsn’t she?” I said. 

ftRather,” said Mrs. Braddocks. 



Cohn came up. “Come on, Jake,” he said, “Have a 
drink.” We walked over to the bar. “What’s the mat¬ 
ter with you ? You seem all worked up over something ? ” 

“Nothing. This whole show makes me sick is all.” 

Brett came up to the bar. 

“Hello, you chaps.” 

Hello, Brett,” I said. “ Why aren’t you tight?” 

“Never going to get tight any more. I say, give a 
chap a brandy and soda.” 

She stood holding the glass and I saw Robert Cohn 
looking at her. He looked a great deal as his compatriot 
must have looked when he saw the promised land. 
Cohn, of course, was much younger. But he had that 
look of eager, deserving expectation. 

Brett was damned good-looking. She wore a slip¬ 
over jersey sweater and a tweed skirt, and her hair was 
brushed back like a boy’s. She started all that. She 
was built with curves like the hull of a racing yacht, and 
you missed none of it with that wool jersey. 

“It’s a fine crowd you’re with, Brett,” I said. 

“Aren’t they lovely? And you, my dear. Where did 
you get it?” 

“At the Napolitain.” 

“And have you had a lovely evening?” 

“Oh, priceless,” I said. 

Brett laughed. “It’s wrong of you, Jake. It’s an in¬ 
sult to all of us. Look at Frances there, and Jo.” 

This for Cohn’s benefit. 

“It’s in restraint of trade,” Brett said. She laughed 

“You re wonderfully sober,” I said. 

“Yes. Aren’t I? And when one’s with the crowd.C’m 
frith, one can drink in such safety, too.” 1 

The music started and Robert Cohn said: “Will <>u 
dance this with me, Lady Brett?” 



Brett smiled at him. “I’ve promised to dance this 
with Jacob,” she laughed. “You’ve a hell of a biblical 
name, Jake.” 

“How about the next?” asked Cohn. 

“We’re going,” Brett said. “We’ve a date up at 

Dancing, I looked over Brett’s shoulder and saw Cohn, 
standing at the bar, still watching her. 

“You’ve made a new one there,” I said to her. 
“Don’t talk about it. Poor chap. I never knew it 
till just now.” 

“Oh, well,” I said. “I suppose you like to add them 

—“Don’t t alk l ike a iooUf 
“You do.’.y- /P 

“ Oh, wel l. What if Lda? ” w 

“Nothing,” I said. We were dancing to the accordion 
and some one was playing the banjo. It was hot and I 
felt happy. We passed close to Georgette dancing with 
another one of them. 

f‘What possessed you to bring her?”' 5 
“I don’t know, I just brought her.” 
j“You’re getting damned romantic.” 

I “No, bored. 


\ “No, not now.’lX 

“Let’s get out of here. She’s well taken care of.” 3-^ 

“Do you want to?’lA 

“Would I ask you if I didn’t want to?” 

We left the floor and I took my coat off a hanger on 
. -e wall and put it on. Brett stood by the bar. Cohn 
m 's talkin g to her. I stopped at the bar and asked them 
r an envelope. The patronne found one. I took a 
fty-franc note from my pocket, put it in the envelope, 
& ialed it, and handed it to the patronne. 


,. ^„ t ^ e 1 came a sks for me, will you give her 

tta?" I said. “If she goes out with one of those «n 3 “ 
men, will you save this for me?” 

“ C’est entendu, Monsieur,” the patronne said “You 
go now? So early?” 

“Yes,” I said. 

We started out the door. Cohn was still talking to 
rett. She said good night and took my arm. “Good 

night, Cohn,” I said. Outside in the street we looked 
lor a taxi. 

“You’re going to lose your fifty francs,” Brett said. 
Oh, yes.”<>, 

^No taxis.” >§* 

“We could walk up to the Pantheon and get one ” 

^ Come on and we’ll get a drink in the pub next door 
and send for one.” 

* You wouldn’t walk across the street.” 

/ “Not if I could help it.” 

We went into the next bar and I sent a waiter for a 

Well;” I said, “we’re out away from them ” 

We stood against the tall zinc bar and did’not talk 
and looked at each other. The waiter came and said the 
taxi was outside. Brett pressed my hand hard. I gave 
the waiter a franc and we went out. “Where should I 
tell him?” I asked. 

“Oh, tell him to drive around.” 

. 1 to [ d / driver to go to the Parc Montsouris, and got 
m, and slammed the door. Brett was leaning back in 
the corner, her eyes closed. I got in and sat beside her. 

I he cab started with a jerk. 

“Oh, darling, I’ve been so miserable,” Brett said. 





The taxi went up the hill, passed the lighted square, 
then on into the dark, still climbing, then levelled out 
onto a dark street behind St. Etienne du Mont, went 
smoothly down the asphalt, passed the trees and the 
standing bus at the Place de la Contrescarpe, then turned 
onto the cobbles of the Rue Mouffetard. There were 
lighted bars and late open shops on each side of the street. 
We were sitting apart and we jolted close together going 
down the old street. Brett’s hat was off. Her head was 
back. I saw her face in the lights from the open sh&ps, 
then it was dark, then I saw her face clearly as we came 
out on the Avenue des Gobelins. The street was torn 
up and men were working on the car-tracks by the light 
of acetylene flares. Brett’s face was white and the long 
line of her neck showed in the bright light of the flares. 
The street was dark again and I kissed her. Our lips 
were tight together and then she turned away and 
pressed against the comer of the seat, as far away as 
she could get. Her head was down. 

"Don’t touch me,” she said. “Please don’t touch 
me. m 

“What’s the matter? 

“I can’t stand it.’j^ 

“Oh, Brett.” /X 

“You mustn’t. You must know. I can’t stand it, 
that’s all. Oh, darling, please understand! ” . ? 

“ Don’t you love me ? ” 

' J ‘‘Love you? I simply turn all to jelly when you touch 

„ \ » 
m 3. 

l “Isn’t there anything we can do about .it?” 


She was sitting up now. My arm was around her and 
she was leaning back against me, and we were quite 
calm. She was looking into my eyes with that way she 
i had of looking that made you wonder whether she really 
saw out of her own eyes. They would look on and on 
after every one else’s eyes in the world would have 
stopped looking. She looked as though there were noth¬ 
ing on earth she would not look at like that, and really 
she was afraid of so many things. 
tf“And there’s not a damn thing we could do,” I said. 
r “ I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t want to go through 
that hell again.” 

*!We’d better keep away from each other.” 

“But, darling, I have to see you. It isn’t all that you 

j“No, but it always gets to be.” 

“That’s my fault. Don’t we pay for all the things we 
do, though?” 

She had been looking into my eyes all the time. Her 
eyes had different depths, sometimes they seemed per¬ 
fectly flat. Now you could see all the way into them. 

U “When I think oLthe hell,JEve p ut,cha p s.through. 
I’m paving for it all now .” 

“Don’t talk like a fool,” I said. “Besides, what hap¬ 
pened to me is supposed to be funny. I never think 
about it.” 

“Oh, no. I’ll lay you don’t.” 

“Well, let’s shut up about it.” 

“I laughed about it too, myself, once.” She wasn’t 
looking at me. “A friend of my brother’s came home 
that way from Mons. It seemed like a hell of a j vke. 
Chaps never know anything, do they?” \ 

*p“No,” I said. “Nobody ever knows anything.” 

I was pretty well through with the subject. At c le 



time or another I had probably considered it from most 
of its various angles, including the one that certain in¬ 
juries or imperfections are a subject of merriment while 
remaining quite serious for the person possessing them. 

“It's funny,” I said. “It’s very funny. And it’s a lot 
of fun, too, to be in love.” 

“Do you think so?” her eyes looked flat again. 

“I don’t mean fun that way. In a way it’s an enjoy¬ 
able feeling.” 

“No,” she said. “I think it’s hell on earth.” 

“It’s good to see each other.” 

“No. I don’t think it is.” 

“Don’t you want to?” 

“I have to.” 

We were sitting now like two strangers. On the right 
was the Parc Montsouris. The restaurant where they 
have the pool of live trout and where you can sit and 
look out over the park was closed and dark. The driver 
leaned his head around. 

“Where do you want to go?” I asked. Brett turned 
her head away. 

“Oh, go to the Select.” 

“Cafe Select,” I told the driver. “Boulevard Mont¬ 
parnasse.” We drove straight down, turning around the 
Lion de Belfort that guards the passing Montrouge 
trams.' Brett looked straight ahead. On the Boulevard 
Raspail, with the lights of Montparnasse in sight, Brett 
said: “Would you mind very much if I asked you to do 

“Don’t be silly.” 

3“Kiss me just once more before we get there.” 
m When the taxi stopped I got out and paid. Brett came 

it putting on her hat. She gave me her hand as she 

tepped down. Her hand was shaky. “I say, do I look 



too much of a mess?” She pulled her man’s felt hat 
down and started in for the bar. Inside, against the bar 
and at tables, were most of the crowd who had been at 
the dance. 

“Hello, you chaps,” Brett said. “I’m going to have a 

“Oh, Brett! Brett!” the little Greek portrait-painter, 
who called himself a duke, and whom everybody called 
Zizi, pushed up to her. “I got something fine to tell you.” 

“Hello, Zizi,” Brett said. 

“I want you to meet a friend,” Zizi said. A fat man 
came up. 

“ Count Mippipopolous, meet my friend Lady Ashley.” 

“How do you do?” said Brett. 

“Well, does your Ladyship have a good time here in 
Paris?” asked Count Mippipopolous, who wore an elk’s 
tooth on his watch-chain. 

“Rather,” said Brett. 

“Paris is a fine town all right,” said the count. “But 
I guess you have pretty big doings yourself over in 

“Oh, yes,” said Brett. “Enormous.” 

Braddocks called to me from a table. “Barnes,” he 
said, “have a drink. That girl of yours got in a fright¬ 
ful row.” 

“What about?” 

“Something the patronne’s daughter said. A corking 
row. She was rather splendid, you know. Showed her 
yellow card and demanded the patronne’s daughter’s 
too. I say it was a row.” 

“Wbat finally happened?” 

“Oh, some one took her home. Not a bad-looking 
girl. Wonderful command of the idiom. Do stay and 
have a drink.” 



“No,” I said. “I must shove off. Seen Cohn?” 

“He went home with Frances,” Mrs. Braddocks put in. 

“Poor chap, he looks awfully down,” Braddocks said. 

“I dare say he is,” said Mrs. Braddocks. 

“I have to shove off,” I said. “Good night.” 

I said good night to Brett at the bar. The count was 
buying champagne. “Will you take a glass of wine with 
us, sir?” he asked. 

“No. Thanks awfully. I have to go.” 

“Really going?” Brett asked. r A 

( 3 ‘Yes,” I said. “I've got a rotten headache.”] 

“I’ll see you to-morrow?” 

“Come in at the office.” 


“Well, where will I see you?” 

“Anywhere around five o'clock.” 

“Make it the other side of town then.” 

“Good. I’ll be at the Crillon at five.” 

“Try and be there,” I said. 

“ Don't worry,” Brett said. “ I've never let you down, 
have I?” 

“Heard from Mike?” 

“Letter to-day.” 

“Good night, sir,” said the count. 

I went out onto the sidewalk and walked down toward 
the Boulevard St. Michel, passed the tables of the Ro~ 
tonde, still crowded, looked across the street at the 
Dome, its tables running out to the edge of the pave¬ 
ment. Some one waved at me from a table, I did not see 
who it was, and went on. I wanted to get home. The 
Boulevard Montparnasse was deserted. Lavigne's was 
closed tight, and they were stacking the tables outside 
the Closerie des Lilas. I passed Ney's statue standing 
among the new-leaved chestnut-trees in the arc-light. 



There was a faded purple wreath leaning against the 
base. I stopped and read the inscription: from the Bona- 
partist Groups, some date; I forget. He looked very 
fine, Marshal Ney in his top-boots, gesturing with his 
sword among the green new horse-chestnut leaves. My 
flat was just across the street, a little way down the 
Boulevard St. Michel. 

There was a light in the concierge's room and I knocked 
on the door and she gave me my mail. I wished her good 
night and went up-stairs. There were two letters and 
some papers. I looked at them under the gas-light in 
the dining-room. The letters were from the States. One 
was a bank statement. It showed a balance of $2432.60. 
I got out my check-book and deducted four checks 
drawn since the first of the month, and discovered I 
had a balance of $1,832.60. I wrote this on the back of 
the statement. The other letter was a wedding announce¬ 
ment! Mr. and Mrs. Aloysius Kirby announce the mar¬ 
riage of their daughter Katherine—I knew neither the 
girl nor the man she was marrying. They must be cir- 
culari ing the town. It was a funny name. I felt sure I 
could remember anybody with a name like Aloysius. It 
was a good Catholic name. There was a crest on the 
announcement. Like Zizi the Greek duke. And that 
count. CThe count was funny. Brett had a title, too. 
Lady Ashley. To hell with Brett. To hell with you, 
Lady AshleyJ 

fj[ lit the lamp beside the bed, turned off the gas, and 
opened the wide windowy The bed was far back from 
the windows, and I sat with the windows open and un¬ 
dressed by the bed. Outside a night train, running on 
the street-car tracks, went by carrying vegetables to the 
markets. They were, noisy at night when you could not 
sleep. I Undressing, I looked at myself in the mirror of 


the big armoire beside the bedj That was a typically 
French way to furnish a room. Practical, too, I sup¬ 
pose. /Of all the ways to be w ounded. I suppose it was 
funny. TI put on my pajamas and got into bed. I had 

^ 1 11 r __1_ i. ^ M J T 4 * 1 "* /-Vi f* TTTVO T'VT'V 

the two bull-fight papers, and I took their wrappers of!. 
One was orange. The other yellow. They would both 
have the same news, so whichever I read first would 
spoil the other. Le Toril was the better paper, so I 
started to read it. I read it all the way through, includ¬ 
ing the Petite Correspondance and the Cornigrams. I 
bkw out the lamp. Perhaps, I would be able to sleep. 1 ; • 
(My he ad started to work J The old gri evance. Well, / 
it was a rotten way to be wounded and flying on a joke 
front likelhe Italian. In the Italian hospital we were 
goi ng to form a socie ty. It had a funny name in Italian. 

I wonder what became of the others, the Italians. That 
was in the Ospedale Maggiore in Milano, Padiglione 
Ponte. The next building was the Padiglione Zonda. 
There was a statue of Ponte, or maybe it was Zonda. 
That was where the liaison colonel came to visit me. 
That was funny. That was about the first funny thing. 

I was all bandaged up. But they had told, him about 
it. Then he made that wonderful speech :^You, a for¬ 
eigner, ar. Englishman (any foreigner Jvas an English¬ 
man), have given more than your life.’J What a speech! 

I would Gke to Have Tt~ Illuminated to hang in the office. 
He never laughed. He was putting himself in my place, 

I guess, “('he mala fortuna! Che mala fortuna!” 

I never used to realize it, I guess.. I try and play it 
along and just not make trouble for people. Probably I 
never would have had any trouble if I hadn’t run into 
Brett when they shipped me to England, [^ suppose she 
oriy wanted what she couldn’t have.! WeflTpeople were 
tnat way. To hell with people. The Catholic Church 


had an awfully go od way of h andling all that. Good ad¬ 
vice, anyway! Not to thi nk about it. OfTTt was swell 
advice. Try and "take it sometime. Try and take it. 

i lay awake thinking and my mind jumping around. 
T hen I couldn t keep away from it, and I started to 
think about Brett and all the rest of it went away. I 
was thinking about Brett and my mind stopped jump¬ 
ing around and started to go in sort of smooth waves. 
Then all of a sudden I starte d to cry] Then after a while 
it was better and I lay in bed and listened to the heavy 
trams go by and way down the street, and then I went 
to sleep. 

I woke up. There was a row going on outside. 1 lis¬ 
tened and I thought I recognized a voice. I put on a 
dressing-gown and went to the door. The concierge was 
talking down-stairs. She was very angry. I heard my 
name and called down the stairs. 

“Is that you, Monsieur Barnes?” the concierge called. 
“Yes. It’s me.” 

“There’s a species of woman here who’s waked the 
whole street up. What kind of a dirty business at this 
time of night! She says she must see you. I’ve told her 
you’re asleep.” 

Then I heard Brett’s voice. Half asleep I had been 
sure it was Georgette. I don’t know why. She could 
not have known my address. 

“Will you send her up, please?” 

Brett came up the stairs. I saw she was quite drunk. 
“Silly thing to do,” she said. “Make an awful row. I 
vay, you weren’t asleep, were you?” 

“What did you think I was doing?” 

“Don’t know. What time is it?” 

I looked at the clock. It was half-past four. “Had no 
idea what hour it was,” Brett said. “I say. can a chi \T- 


sit down? Don’t be cross, darling. Just left the count. 
He brought me here.” 

“What’s he like?” I was getting brandy and soda 
and glasses. 

“Just a little,” said Brett. “Don’t try and make me 
drunk. The count? Oh, rather. He’s quite one of us.” 
“Is he a count?” 

“Here’s how. I rather think so, you know. Deserves 
to be, anyhow. Knows hell’s own amount about people. 
Don’t know where he got it all. Owns a chain of sweet¬ 
shops in the States.” 

She sipped at her glass. 

“Think he called it a chain. Something like that. 
Linked them all up. Told me a little about it. Damned 
interesting. He’s one of us, tho ugh. O h, quite. No 
doubt. One can always tell.’ ^X 
She took another drink. 

“How do I buck on about all this? You don’t mind, 
do you? He’s putting up for Zizi, you know.” 

“Is Zizi really a duke, too?” 

“I shouldn’t wonder. Greek, you know. Rotten 
painter. I rather liked the count.” 

“Where did you go with him?” 

“Oh, everywhere. He just brought me here now. 
Offered me ten thousand dollars to go to Biarritz with 
him. How much is that in pounds?” 

“Around two thousand.” 

“Lot of money. I told him I couldn’t do it. He was 
awfully nice about it. Told him I knew too many peo¬ 
ple in Biarritz.” 

Brett laughed. 

“I say, you are slow on the up-take,” she said. I had 
only sipped my brandy and soda. I took a long drint 
“That’s better. Very funny,” Brett said. “Then he 



wanted me to go to Cannes with him. Told him I knew 
too many people in Cannes. Monte Carlo. Told him I 
knew too many people in Monte Carlo. Told him I 
knew too many people everywhere. Quite true, too. So 
I asked him to bring me here.” 

She looked at me, her hand on the table, her glass 
raised. “Don’t look like that,” she said. “Told him I 
was in love with you. True, too. Don’t look like that. 
He was damn nice about it. Wants to drive us out to 
dinner to-morrow night. Like to go?” 

“Why not?” 

“I’d better go now.” 


“Just wanted to see you. Damned silly idea. Want 
to get dressed and come down? He’s got the car just 
up the street.” 

“The count?” 

“Himself. And a chauffeur in livery. Going to drive 
me around and have breakfast in the Bois. Hampers. 
Got it all at Zelli’s. Dozen bottles of Mumms. Tempt 
you ? ” 

“I have to work in the morning,” I said. “I’m too 
far behind you now to catch up and be any fun.” 

“Don’t be an ass.” 

“Can’t do it.” 

“Right. Send him a tender message?” 

“Anything. Absolutely.” 

“Good night, darling.” 

“Don’t be sentimental.” 

“You make me ill.” 

We kissed good night and Brett shivered. “I’d better 
go,” she said. “ Good night, darling.” 

“You don’t have to go.” 


37 ' 

We kissed again on the stairs and as I called fo7 erec * 
cordon the concierge muttered something behind hl n " 
door. I went back up-stairs and from the open window' 
watched Brett walking up the street to the big limousine 
drawn up to the curb under the arc-light. She got in 
and it started off. I turned around. On the table was 
an empty glass and a glass half-full of brandy and soda. 

I took them both out to the kitchen and poured the half¬ 
full glass down the sink. I turned off the gas in the 
dining-room, kicked off my slippers sitting on the bed, , 
and got into bed. This was Brett, that I had felt like 
crying about. Then I thought of her walking up the 
street and stepping into the car, as I had last seen her, 
and of course in a little while I felt like hell again. 
Tit is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in 
\jhe daytime, but at night It is another thing. 


; ~y 


want/ _ 

tor L 


In the morning I walked down the boulevard to the 
rue Soufflot for coffee and brioche. It was a fine morn¬ 
ing. The horse-chestnut trees in the Luxembourg gar¬ 
dens were in bloom. There was the pleasant early-morn¬ 
ing feeling of a hot day. I read the papers with the coffee 
and then smoked a cigarette. The flower-women were 
coming up from the market and arranging their daily 
stock. Students went by going up to the law school, or 
down to the Sorbonne. The Boulevard was busy with 
trams and people going to work. I got on an S bus and 
rode down to the Madeleine, standing on the back plat¬ 
form. From the Madeleine I walked along the Boule- 
l ^rd des Capucines to the Opera, and up to my office, 
passed the man with the jumping frogs and the man 
f h the boxer toys. I stepped aside to avoid walking 
the thread with which his girl assistant manipulated 
che boxers. She was standing looking away, the thread 
iiVher folded hands. The man was urging two tourists 
to buy. Three more tourists had stopped and were 
watching. I walked on behind a man who was pushing 
a roller that printed the name CINZANO on the side¬ 
walk in damp letters. All along people were going to 
work. It felt pleasant to be going to work. I walked 
across the avenue and turned in to my office. 

Up-stairs in the office I read the French morning 
papers, smoked, and then sat at the typewriter and got 
off a good morning’s work. At eleven o’clock I went 
over to the Quai d’Orsay in a taxi and went in and sat 
with about a dozen correspondents, while the foreign- 
office mouthpiece, a young Nouvelle Revue Fran^aise 

3 ^ 



diplomat in horn-rimmed spectacles, talked and answered 
questions for half an hour. The President of the Coun¬ 
cil was in Lyons making a speech, or, rather he was on 
his way back. Several people asked questions to hear 
themselves talk and there were a couple of questions 
asked by news service men who wanted to know the 
answers. There was no news. I shared a taxi back from 
the Quai d’Orsay with Woolsey and Krum. 

“What do you do nights, Jake?” asked Krum. “I 
never see you around.” 

“Oh, I’m over in the Quarter.” 

“I’m coming over some night. The Dingo. That’s 
the great place, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. That, or this new dive, The Select.” 

“I’ve meant to get over,” said Krum. “You know 
how it is, though, with a wife and kids.” 

“Playing any tennis?” Woolsey asked. 

“Well, no,” said Krum. “I can’t say I’ve played any 
this year. I’ve tried to get away, but Sundays it’s always 
rained, and the courts are so damned crowded.” 

“The Englishmen all have Saturday off,” Woolsey 

“Lucky beggars,” said Krum. “Well, I’ll tell you. 
Some day I’m not going to be working for an agency. 
Then I’ll have plenty of time to get out in the country.” 

“That’s the thing to do. Live out in the country and. 
have a little car.” 

“I’ve been thinking some about getting a car next 

I banged on the glass. The chauffeur stopped. 
“ Here’s my street,” I said. “ Come in and have a drink.’’ 

“Thanks, old man,” Krum said. Woolsey shook his 
head. “I’ve got to file that line he got off this morning ’’ 

I put a two-franc piece in Krum’s hand. 



“You’re crazy, Jake,” he said. “This is on me.” 

“It’s all on the office, anyway.” 

“Nope. I want to get it.” 

I waved good-by. Krum put his head out. “See you 
at the lunch on Wednesday.” 

“You bet.” 

I went to the office in the elevator. Robert Cohn was 
waiting for me. “Hello, Jake,” he said. “Going out to 

“ Yes. LeJ me see if there is anything new.” 

“Where will we eat?” 


I was looking over my desk. “Where do you want to 

“How about Wetzel's? They've got good hors 

In the restaurant we ordered hors d'ceuvres and beer. 
The sommelier brought the beer, tall, beaded on the out¬ 
side of the steins, and cold. There were a dozen different 
dishes of hors d'ceuvres. 

“Have any fun last night?” I asked. 

“No. I don't think so.” 

“How's the writing going?”!/ v 

“Rotten. I can't get this second book going.” 

“That happens to everybody.”/ 

“Oh, I'm sure of that. It gets me worried, though.” 

“Thought any more about going to South America?” 

“I mean that.” 

“Well, why don't you start off?” 


“Well,” I said, “take her with you.” 

“She wouldn't like it. That isn't the sort of thing shj 
likes. She likes a lot of people around.” 

“Tell her to go to hell.” 




“I can’t. I’ve got certain obligations to her. r K > 

He shoved the sliced cucumbers away and took a 
pickled herring. 

“What do you know about Lady Brett Ashley, Jake?” 

“Her name’s Lady Ashley. Brett’s her own name. 
She’s a nice girl,” I said. “She’s getting a divorce and 
she’s going to marry Mike Campbell. He’s over in 
Scotland now. Why?” 

“She’s a remarkably attractive woman."f' 

“Isn’t she?” 

“There’s a certain quality about her, a certain fine¬ 
ness. She seems to be absolutely fine and straight.” 

“She’s very nice.” 

“I don’t know how to describe the quality,” Cohn 
said. “I suppose it’s breeding.” 

“You sound as though you liked her pretty well.” 

“I do. I shouldn’t wonder if I were in love with her.” • 

“She’s a drunk,” I said. “She’s in love with Mike 
Campbell, and she’s going to marry him. He’s going to 
be rich as hell some dav.” 

“I don’t believe she’ll ever marry him.’”f° 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t know. I just don’t believe it. Have you, 
known her a long time?’ 

“ YeL,” I said. “ She was a V. A. D. in a hospital I was 
in during the war.” * k**** c * A 

“She must have been just a kid then.” 

“She’s thirty-four now.” 

“When did she marry Ashley?” 

“During the war. Her own true love had just kicked 
off with the dysentery.”- P***-*^ 

“You talk sort of bitter.” 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to give 
you the facts.” 


“ I don’t believe she would marry anybody she didn’t 

“Well,” I said. “She’s done it twice.” 

“I don’t believe it.” 

“Well,” I said, “don’t ask me a lot of fool questions 
if you don’t like the answers.” 

“I didn’t ask you that.” 

~“You asked me what I knew about Brett Ashley.” 

“I didn’t ask you to insult her.” 

^ “Oh, go to hell.” 

He stood up from the table his face white, and stood 
there white and angry behind the little plates of hors 

“Sit down,” I said. “Don’t be a fool.” 

“You’ve got to take that back.” 

“Oh, cut out the prep-school stuff.” 

“Take it back.” 

“Sure. Anything. I never heard of Brett Ashley. 
How’s that?” 

“No. Not that. About me going to hell.” 

“Oh, don’t go to hell,” I said. “Stick around. We’re 
just starting lunch.” 

Cohn smiled again and sat down. He seemed glad to 
sit down. What the hell would he have done if he hadn’t 
* sat down? “You say such damned insulting things, 

/ “I’m sorry. I’ve got a nasty tongue. I never mean 
it when I say nasty things.” ' J/ r 

“I know it,” Cohn 'raid. “You’re really about the 
best friend I have, Jake.” 

God help you, I thought. “Forget what I said,” I 
said out loud. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s all right. It’s fine. I was just sore for a minute.” 

“ Good. Let’s get something else to eat.” 



After we finished the lunch we walked up to the Cafe 
de la Paix and had coffee. I could feel Cohn wanted to 
bring up Brett again, but I held him off it. We talked 
about one thing and another, and I left him to come to 
the office. 

^■■'3 ***5 

4l.e ~ xc j 


At five o’clock I was in the Hotel Crillon waiting for 
Brett. She was not there, so I sat down and wrote some 
letters. They were not very good letters but I hoped 
their being on Crillon stationery would help them. Brett 
did not turn up, so about quarter to six I went down to 
the bar and had a Jack Rose with George the barman. 
Brett had not been in the bar either, and so I looked for 
her up-stairs on my way out, and took a taxi to the 
Cafe Select. Crossing the Seine I saw a string of barges 
being towed empty down the current, riding high, Jthe 
bargemen at the sweeps as they came toward the bridge. 
The river looked nice. It was always pleasant crossing 
bridges in Paris. 

The taxi rounded the statue of the inventor of the 
semaphore engaged in doing same, and turned up the 
Boulevard Raspail, and I sat back to let that part of 
the ride pass. The Boulevard Raspail always made dull 
riding. It was like a certain stretch on the P. L. M. be¬ 
tween Fontainebleau and Montereau that always made 
me feel bored and dead and dull until it was over. I 
suppose it is some association of ideas that makes those 
dead places in a journey. There are other streets in 
Paris as ugly as the Boulevard Raspail. It is a street I 
do not mind walking down at all. But I cannot stand to 
ride along it. Perhaps I had read something about it 
once. That was the way Robert Cohn was about ad of 
Paris. I wondered where Cohn got that incapacity to 
enioy Paris. Possibly from Mencken. Mencken hates 
Paris, I believe. So many young men get their likes md 
dislikes from Mencken. 




The taxi stopped in front of the Rotonde. No matter 
what cafe in Montparnasse you ask a taxi-driver to 
bring you to from the right bank of the liver, they al¬ 
ways take you to the Rotonde. Ten years from now it 
y will probably be the Dome. It was near enough, any- 
! wav. I walked past the sad tables of the Rotonde to the 
.Select. There wer$ a few people inside at the bar, and 
outside, alone, satLHarvey Stone.7 He had a pile of 
saucers in front of him, and he needed a shave. 

“Sit down,” said Harvey, “I’ve been looking for you.” 

“What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing? Just looking for you.’^ 

“Been out to the races?” 

“No. Not since Sunday.’Jv 

“Whatjda«y£u[Jiearfromjthe States?” 

“ Nothing.- Absolutely nothing.” 

“What’s the matteT?” 

“I don’t know. I’m through with them. I’m abso¬ 
lutely through with them.” 

He leaned forward and looked me in the eye. 

“Do you want to know something, Jake?” 


“I haven’t had anything to eat for five days.” 

I figured rapidly back in my mind. It was three days 
ago that Harvey had won two hundred francs from mt, 
shaking poker dice in the New York Bar. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“No money. Money hasn’t come,” he paused. “ J 
teL you it’s strange, Jake. When I’m like this I just 
W 7 .nt to be alone. I want to stay in my own room- Fa 
lii?.* a cat.” 
col felt in my pocket. 

yC ‘Would a hundred help you any, Harvey?” 




“Come on. Let's go and eat.” 7 

“There's no hurry. Have a drink.” 

“Better eat.” v " 

“No. When I get like this I don’t care whether I eat 
or not.” 

We had a drink. Harvey added my saucer to his own 

“Do you know Mencken, Harvey?” 

“Yes. Why?” 

“What's he like?” 

“He's all right. He says some pretty funny things. 
Last time I had dinner with him we talked about Hoffen- 
heimer. ‘The trouble is,' he said, ‘he's a garter snapper.' 
That's not bad.” 

“That's not bad.” 

“He's through now,” Harvey went on. “He's written 
about all the things he knows, and now lie's on all the 
things he doesn't know.” 

“I guess he's all right,” I said. “I just can't read 

“Oh, nobody reads him now,” Harvey said, “except 
the people that used to read the Alexander Hamilton 

“Well,” I said. “That was a good thing, too.” 

“Sure,” said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply 
for a while. 

“Have another port?” 

“All right,” said Harvey. 

“There comes Cohn,” I said. Robert Cohn was cross¬ 
ing the street. 

“That moron,” said Harvey. Cohn came up to o r 

“Hello, you bums,” he said. 

“Hello, Robert,” Harvey said. “I was just tellir 
Jake here that you're a moron.” 



“What do you mean? 1 

“Tell us right off. Don’t think. What would you 
j^ather do if you could do anything you wanted?” 

Cohn started to consider. ^ 

“Don’t think. Bring it right out.”^ 

“I don’t know,” Cohn said. “What’s it all about, 

“I mean what would you rather do. What comes into 
your head first. No matter how silly it is.” 

“I don’t know,” Cohn said. “I think I’d rather play 
football again with what I know about handling myself, 

“I misjudged you,” Harvey said. “You’re not a 
moron. You’re only a case of arrested development.” 

“You’re awfully funny, Harvey,” Cohn said. “Some 
day somebody will push your face in.” 

Harvey Stone laughed. “You think so. They won’t, 
though. Because it wouldn’t make any difference to 
me. I’m not a fighter.” 

“It would make a difference to you if anybody did it.” 

“No, it wouldn’t. That’s where you make your big 
mistake. Because you’re not intelligent.”' 

“Cut it out about me.” 

“Sure,” said Harvey. “It doesn’t make any differ¬ 
ence to me. You don’t mean anything to me.” 

“Come on, Harvey,” I said. “Have another porto.” 

“No,” he said. “I’m going up the street and eat. 
Se-* you later, Jake.” 

lie walked out and up the street. I watched him cross¬ 
ing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly 
s 1 ‘ e of himself in the traffic. 

cor<He always gets me sore,” Cohn said. “I can’t stand 


'“I like him,” I said. “I’m fond of him. You don't 

mt to get sore at him.” 



“I know it,” Cohn said. “He just gets on my nerves.” 

“Write this afternoon?” 

“No. I couldn’t get it going. It’s harder to do than 
my first book. I’m having a hard time handling it.” 

The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he re¬ 
turned from America early in the spring was gone. 
Then he had been sure of his work, only with these per¬ 
sonal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was 
gone. [Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn 
clearlyT The reason is that until he fell in love with 
Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, 
in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice 
to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and 
he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at 
bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality 
about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood 
out.7 He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, 
aricf*may be called that still, but he was not profession¬ 
ally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his 
clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Prince¬ 
ton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women 
who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of 
cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and 
I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at 
tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, 
for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at 
being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis 
• game went all to pieces. People beat him who had ne /er 
liad a chance with him. He was very nice about it. 

Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Qf6 
Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the streeVo 

“Come on up to the Lilas,” I said. j 

“I have a date.” 

“What time?” 



“Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen.” 

“There she is.” 

Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the> 
street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great 
deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched 
her cross the street. 

“Hello,” she said, “Fm so glad you’re here, Jake. 
I’ve been wanting to talk to you.” 

“Hello, Frances,” said Cohn. He smiled. 

“Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?” She went on, 
talking rapidly. “ I’ve had the darndest time. This one ” 
—shaking her head at Cohn—“didn’t come home for 

“I wasn’t supposed to.” 

“Oh, I know. But you didn’t say anything about it 
to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn’t 
at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and 
she never came, and of course I didn’t have enough 
money to lunch at the Ritz-” 

“What did you do?” 

“Oh, went out, of course.” She spoke in a sort of imi¬ 
tation joyful manner. “ I always keep my appointments. 
No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. 
How are you, Jake, anyway?” 


“That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then 
went off with that Brett one.” 

“Don’t you like her?” Cohn asked. 

“I think she’s perfectly charming. Don’t you?” 

Cohn said nothing. 

“Loofy Jake. I want to talk witn you. Would you 
come over with me to the Dome ? You’ll stay here, won’t 
you, Robert ? Come on, Jake.” 

We crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse and sat 



down at a table. A boy came up with the Paris Times, 
and I bought one and opened it. 

“ What’s the matter, Frances ?”' 

“Oh, nothing,” she said, “except that he wants to 
leave me.” 

“How do you mean?” 

/C “Oh, he told every one that we were going to be mar¬ 
ried, and I told my mother and every one, and now he 
doesn’t want to do it.” 

“What’s the matter?” 

*0 “He’s decided he hasn’t lived enough. I knew it 
would happen when he went to New York.” 

She looked up, very bright-eyed and trying to talk 

“I wouldn’t marry him if he doesn’t want to. Of 
course I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t marry him now for any- 
' thing. But it does seem to me to be a little late now, 
after we’ve waited three years, and I’ve just gotten my 
divorce. ” 

I said nothing. 

“We were going to celebrate so, and instead we’ve 
just had scenes. It’s so childish. We have dreadful 
scenes, and he cries and begs me to be reasonable, but 
he says he just can’t do it.” 

“It’s rotten luck.” 

C“ I should say it is rotten luck. I’ve wasted two years 
and a half on him now. And I don’t know now if any 
man will ever want to marry me. Two years ago I could 
have married anybody I wanted, down at Cannes. All 
the old ones that wanted to marry somebody chic and 
settle down were crazy about me. Now I don’t think I 
could get anybody.” 

^‘Sure, you could marry anybody SI 
“No, I don’t believe it. And I’m i 

fond of him, too. 



And I’d like to have children. I always thought we’d 
have children.” 

She looked at me very brightly. “I never liked chil¬ 
dren much, but I don’t want to think I’ll never have \ 
them. I always thought I’d have them and then like 

“He’s got children.” 

“Oh, yes. He’s got children, and he’s got money, and 
he’s got a rich mother, and he’s written a book, and no¬ 
body will publish my stuff, nobody at all. It isn’t bad, 
either. And I haven’t got any money at all. I could have 
had alimony, but I got the divorce the quickest way ” 

She looked at me again very brightly. 

“It isn’t right. It’s my own fault and it’s not, too. 

I ought to have known better. And when I tell him he 
just cries and says he can’t marry. Why can’t he marry ? 

I’d be a good wife. I’m easy to get along with. I leave 
him alone. It doesn’t do any good.” 

“It’s a rotten shame.” 

“Yes, it is a rotten shame. But there’s no use talking 
about it, is there? Come on, let’s go back to the cafe.” ^ 

“And of course there isn’t anything I can do.”^^ 

“No. Just don’t let him know I talked to you. I 
know what he wants.” Now for the first time she dropped 
her bright, terribly cheerful manner. “He wants to go 
back to New York alone, and be there when his book 
comes out so when a lot of little chickens like it. That’s 
what he wants.” 

“Maybe they won’t like it. I don’t think he’s that 
way. Really.” 

“You don’t know him like I do, Jake. That’s what 
he wants to do. I know it. I know it. That’s why he 
doesn’t want to marry. He wants to have a big triumph 
this fall all by himself.” 



“Want to go back to the cafe?” 

“Yes. Come on.” 

We got up from the table—they had never brought 
us a drink and started across the street toward the 
Select, where Cohn sat smiling at us from behind the 
marble-topped table. 

“Well, what are you s m iling at?” Frances asked him. 
“Feel pretty happy?” 

“I was smiling at you and Jake with your secrets.” 

“Oh, what I’ve told Jake isn’t any secret. Everybody 
will know it soon enough. I only wanted to give Jake 
a decent version.” 

“What was it? About your going to England?” 

“Yes, about my going to England. Oh, Jake! I for¬ 
got to tell you. I’m going to England.” 

“Isn’t that fine!” 

“Yes, that’s the way it’s done in the veiy best fam¬ 
ilies. Robert’s sending me. He’s going to give me two 
hundred pounds and then I’m going to visit friends. 
Won’t it be lovely? The friends don’t know about it 

She turned to Cohn and smiled at him. He was not 
smiling now. 

, “You were only going to give me a hundred pounds, 

weren’t you, Robert? But I made him give me two 
hundred. He’s really very generous. Aren’t you, Rob¬ 

I do not know how people could say such terrible 
things to Robert Cohn. There are people to whom you 
could not say insulting things. They give you a feeling 
that the world would be destroyed, would actually be 
destroyed before your eyes, if you said certain things. 
But here was Cohn taking it all. Here it was, all going 
on right before me, and I did not even feel an impulse 



to try and stop it. And this was friendly joking to what 
went on later. 

“How can you say such things, Frances?” Cohn in¬ 

“Listen to him. I’m going to England. I’m going to 
visit friends. Ever visit friends that didn’t want you? 
Oh, they’ll have to take me, all right. ‘How do you do, 
my dear ? Such a long time since we’ve seen you. And 
how is your dear mother ? ’ Yes, how is my dear mother ? 
She put all her money into French war bonds. Yes, she 
did. Probably the only person in the world that did. 
‘And what about Robert?’ or else very careful talking 
around Robert. ‘You must be most careful not to men¬ 
tion him, my dear. Poor Frances has had a most un¬ 
fortunate experience.’ Won’t it be fun, Robert ? Don’t 
you think it will be fun, Jake?” 

She turned to me with that terribly bright smile. It 
was very satisfactory to her to have an audience for this. 

“And where are you going to be, Robert? It’s my 
own fault, all right. Perfectly my own fault. When I 
made you get rid of your little secretary on the maga¬ 
zine I ought to have known you’d get rid of me the 
same way. Jake doesn’t know about that. Should I 
tell him?” 

“Shut up, Frances, for God’s sake.” 

“ Yes, I’ll tell him. Robert had a little secretary on the 
magazine. Just the sweetest little thing in the world, 
and he thought she was wonderful, and then I came along 
and he thought I was pretty wonderful, too. So I made 
him get rid of her, and he had brought her to Province- 
town from Carmel when he moved the magazine, and 
he didn’t even pay her fare back to the coast. All to 
please me. He thought I was pretty fine, then. Didn’t 
you, Robert? 

5 2 


“You mustn’t misunderstand, Jake, it was absolutely 
platonic with the secretary. Not even platonic. Noth¬ 
ing at all, really. It was just that she was so nice. And 
he did that just to please me. Well, I suppose that we 
that live by the sword shall perish by the sword. Isn’t 
that literary, though? You want to remember that for 
your next book, Robert. 

“You know Robert is going to get material for a new 
book. Aren’t you, Robert? That’s why he’s leaving 
me. He’s decided I don’t film well. You see, he was so 
busy all the time that we were living together, writing 
on this book, that he doesn’t remember anything about 
us. So now he’s going out and get some new material. 
Well, I hope he gets something frightfully interesting. 

“Listen, Robert, dear. Let me tell you something. 
You won’t mind, will you? Don’t have scenes with your 
young ladies. Try not to. Because you can’t have scenes 
without crying, and then you pity yourself so much you 
can’t remember what the other person’s said. You’ll 
never be able to remember any conversations that way. 
Just try and be calm. I know it’s awfully hard. But re¬ 
member, it’s for literature. We all ought to make sacri¬ 
fices for literature. Look at me. I’m going to England 
without a protest. All for literature. We must all help 
young writers. Don’t you think so, Jake? But you’re 
not a young writer. Are you, Robert? You’re thirty- 
four. Still, I suppose that is young for a great writer. 
Look at Hardy. Look at Anatole France. He just died 
a little while ago. Robert doesn’t think he’s any good, 
though. Some of his French friends told him. He does ¬ 
n’t read French very well himself. He wasn’t a good 
writer like you are, was he, Robert? Do you think h.; 
ever had to go and look for material ? What do you sup¬ 
pose he said to his mistresses when he wouldn’t marry 


S3 * 

them? I wonder if he cried, too? Oh, I’ve just thought 
of something.” She put her gloved hand up to her lips. 
“I know the real reason why Robert won’t marry me," 
Jake. It’s just come to me. They’ve sent it to me in a 
vision in the Cafe Select. Isn’t it mystic? Some day 
they’ll put a tablet up. Like at Lourdes. Do you want 
to hear, Robert ? I’ll tel! you. It’s so simple. I wonder 
why I never thought about it. {Why, you see, Robert’s 
always wanted to have a mistress, and if he doesn’t 
marry me, why, then he’s had one! She was his mistress 
for over two years. See how it Is? And if he marries 
me, like he’s always promised he would, that would be 
the end of all the romance. Don’t you think that’s 
bright of me to figure that out? It’s true, too. Look at 
him and see if it’s not. Where are you going, Jake?” 

“I’ve got to go in and see Harvey Stone a minute.” 

Cohn looked up as I went in. His face was white. 
Why did he sit there? Why did he keep on taking it 
like that? 

As I stood against the bar looking out I could see them 
through the window. Frances was talking on to him, 
smiling brightly, looking into his face each time she 
asked: “Isn’t it so, Robert?” Or maybe she did not ask 
that now. Perhaps she said something else. I told the 
barman I did not want anything to drink and went out 
through the side door. As I went out the door I looked 
back through the two thicknesses of glass and saw them 
sitting there. She was still talking to him. I went down 
a side street to the Boulevard Raspail. A taxi came along 
and I got in and gave the driver the address of my flat. 


As I started up the stairs the concierge knocked on 
the glass of the door of her lodge, and as I stopped she 
came out. She had some letters and a telegram. 

“Here is the post. And there was a lady here to see 

“Did she leave a card?” 

“No. She was with a gentleman. It was the one who 
was here last night. In the end I find she is very 

“Was she with a friend of mine?” 

“I don’t know. He was never here before. He was 
very large. Very, very large. She was very nice. Very, 
very nice. Last night she was, perhaps, a little—” She 
put her head on one hand and rocked it up and down. 
“I’ll speak perfectly frankly, Monsieur Barnes. Last 
night I found her not so gentille. Last night I formed an¬ 
other idea of her. But listen to what I tell you. She is 
ires, tres gentille. She is of very good family, it is a 
tiling you can see.” 

“They did not leave any word?” 

“Yes. They said they would be back in an hour.” 

“Send them up when they come.” 

“Yes, Monsieur Barnes. And that lady, that lady 
there is some one. An eccentric, perhaps, but quelqu’une, 

The concierge, before she became a concierge, had 
owned a drink-selling concession at the Paris race-courses. 
Her life-work lay in the pelouse, but she kept an eye on 
the people of the pesage, and she took great pride in tell- 



mg me which of my guests were well brought up, which 
were of good family, who were sportsmen, a French word 
pronounced with the accent on the men. The only 
trouble was that people who did not fall into any of 
those three categories were very liable to be told there 
was no one home, chez Barnes. One of my friends, an 
extremely underfed-looking painter, who was obviously 
to Madame Duzinell neither well brought up, of good 
familyTUor a sportsman, wrote me a letter asking if I 
could get him a pass to get by the concierge so he could 
come up and see me occasionally in the evenings. 

I went up to the flat wondering what Brett had done 
to the concierge. The wire was a cable from Bill Gorton, 
saying he was arriving on the France . I put the mail on 
the table, went back to the bedroom, undressed and 
had a shower. I was rubbing down when I heard the 
door-bell pull. I put on a bathrobe and slippers and 
went to the door. It was Brett. Back of her was the 
count. He was holding a great bunch of roses. 

“Hello, darling,” said Brett. “Aren’t you going to 
let us in?” 

“Come on. I was just bathing.” 

“Aren’t you the fortunate man. Bathing.” 

“Only a shower. Sit down, Count Mippipopolous. 
What will you drink?” 

“I don’t know whether you like flowers, sir,” 'the 
count said, “but I took the liberty of just bringing these 

“Here, give them to me.” Brett took them. “Get me 
some water in this, Jake.” I filled the big earthernware 
jug with water in the kitchen, and Brett put the roses 
in it, and placed them in the centre of the dining-room 

“I say. We have had a day.” 



“You don’t remember anything about a date with 
me at the Crillon ? ” 

“No. Did we have one? I must have been blind.” 

“You were quite drunk, my dear,” said the count. 

“Wasn’t I, though? And the count’s been a brick, 

“You’ve got hell’s own drag with the concierge now.” 

“I ought to have. Gave her two hundred francs.” 

“Don’t be a damned fool.” 

“His,” she said, and nodded at the count. 
j&l thought we ought to give her a little something for 
last night. It was very late.” 

“He’s wonderful,” Brett said. “He remembers every¬ 
thing that’s happened.” 

“So do you, my dear.” 

^ “Fancy,” said Brett. “ Who’ d want to? I say, Jake, 
do we get a drink?” 

“You get it while I go in and dress. You know where 


While I dressed I heard Brett put down glasses and 
then a siphon, and then heard them talking. I dressed 
slowly, sitting on the bed. I felt tired and pretty rotten. 
Brett came in the room, a glass in her hand, and sat on 
the bed. 

“What’s the matter, darling? Do you feel rocky?” 

^She kissed me coolly on the forehead, 
s/ “Oh, Brett, I love you so much.” 

/ “Darling,” she said. Then: “Do you want me to 
send him away?” 

“No. He’s nice.” 

“I’ll send him away.” 

“No, don’t.” 

“Yes, I’ll send him away.” 



“You can't just like that." 

“Can't I, though? You stay here. He's mad about 
me, I tell you." 

She was gone out of the room. I lay face down on the 
bed. wasjiaving a bad time. I heard them talking^ 
but I^icTnot listen. Brett came in and sat on the bed.] 

“Poor old darling." She stroked my head. 

^What did you say to him?" I was lying with my 
face away from her. I did not want to see her J ^ 5 * 

“Sent him for champagne. He loves to go for cham¬ 

Then later: “Do you feel better, darling? Is the head^ 
any better?" \ 

“It's better A. 

“Lie quiet. He's gone to the other side of town." 

“Couldn't we live together, Brett? Couldn't we just 
live together?" 

PH don't think so. I'd just tromper you with every¬ 
body. You couldn't stand it."-— 

“I stand it now." ^ 

“That would be different. It's my fault, Jake. It's.^ 
the way I'm made." 

“Couldn't we go off in the country for a while 

“It wouldn't be any good. I'll go if you like. But I 
couldn't live quietly in the country. Not with my own 
true love." 

“I know." 

“Isn't it rotten? There isn't any use my telling you I 
love you." 

“You know I love you." 

“Let's not talk, ^ajking's all bilgej I'm going away 
from you, and then Michael's coming back." 

“Why are you going away?" 

“Better for you. 

Better for me.”/. 



"When are you going?” 

“Soon as I can.” 


“San Sebastian.” 

'“Can’t we go together?” 

“No. That would be a hell of an idea after we’d just 
talked it out.” 

“We never agreed.” 

“Oh, you know as well as I do. Don’t be obstinate, 

. “Oh, sure,” I said. “I know you’re right. I’m just 
low, and when I’m low I talk like a fool.” 

I sat up, leaned over, found my shoes beside the bed 
and put them on. I stood up. 

“Don’t look like that, darling.” 

“How do you want me to look?” 

^“Oh, don’t be a fool. I’m going away to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow ? ” 

^“Yes. Didn’t I say so? I am.” 

^ “Let’s have a drink, then. The count will be back.” 

“Yes. He should be back. You know he’s extraor¬ 
dinary about buying champagne. It means any amount 
to him.” 

We went into the dining-room. I took up the brandy 
bottle and poured Brett a drink and one for myself. 
There was a ring at the bell-pull. I went to the door and 
there was the count. Behind him was the chauffeur 
carrying a basket of champagne. 

“Where should I have him put it, sir?” asked the 

“In the kitchen,” Brett said. 

“Put it in there, Henry,” the count motioned. “Now 
go down and get the ice.” He stood looking after the 
basket inside the kitchen door. “I think you’ll find that’s 


very good wine,” he said. “I know we don't get muc^ 
of a chance to judge good wine in the States now, but 
I got this from a friend of mine that's in the business.” 

“Oh, you always have some one in the trade,” Brett 

“This fellow raises the grapes. He's got thousands of 
acres of them.” 

“What's his name?” asked Brett. “Veuve Cliquot?” 

“No,” said the count. “Mumms. He's a baron.” 

~ “Isn't it wonderful,” said Brett. “We all have titles.^ 
Why haven't you a title, Jake?” 

“I assure you, sir,” the count put his hand on my^ 
arm. “It never does a man any good. Most of the time 
it costs you money.” 

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s damned useful sometimes,”/ 
Brett said. 

“I've never known it to do me any good.” 

“You haven't used it properly. I've had hell's own j 
amount of credit on mine.” 

“Do sit down, count,” I said. “Let me take that 

fThe count was looking at Brett across the table under 
tne gas-light. She was smoking a cigarette and flicking 
the. ashes on the rug. She saw me notice it. “I say, 
Jake, I don’t want to ruin your rugs. Can't you give 
a chap an ash-tray ? Z} 

I found some ash-trays and spread them around. 
The chauffeur came up with a bucket full of salted ice. 
“Put two bottles in it, Henry,” the count called. 

“Anything else, sir?” 

“No. Wait down in the car.” He turned to Brett 
and to me. “We'll want to ride out to the Bois for 

“If you like,” Brett said. “I couldn't eat a thing.” 



“I always like a good meal,” said the count. 

“Should I bring the wine in, sir?” asked the chauf¬ 

“Yes. Bring it in, Henry,” said the count. He took 
out a heavy pigskin cigar-case and offered it to me. 
“Like to try a real American cigar?” 

“Thanks,” I said. “Ill finish the cigarette.” 

He cut off the end of his cigar with a gold cutter he 
wore on one end of his watch-chain. 

“I like a cigar to really draw,” said the count. “Half 
the cigars you smoke don’t draw.” 

He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table 
at Brett. “And when you’re divorced, Lady Ashley, 
then you won’t have a title.” 

“No. What a pity.” 

“No,” said the count. “You don’t need a title. You 
got class all over you.” 

“Thanks. Awfully decent of you.” 

“ I’m not joking y ou/’ the count blew a cloud of 
smoke. “You got the most cl^ss of anybody I ever 
seen. You got it. That’s all.” 

“Nice of you,” said Brett. “ Mummy would be pleased. 
Couldn’t you write it out, and I’ll send it in a letter to 

“I’d tell her, too,” said the count. t^Tm not joking 
you. I never joke people J Joke people and you make 
enemies. That’s what I always say.” 

“You’re right,” Brett said. “You’re terribly right. 
I always joke people and I haven’t a friend in the world. 
Except Jake here.” 

“You don’t joke him.” 

“That’s it.” 

“Do you, now?” asked the count. “Do you joke 



Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the comers of her 

“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t joke him.” 

“See,” said the count. “You don’t joke him.” 

“This is a hell of a dull talk,” Brett said. “ How about / 
some of that champagne?” 

The count reached down and twirled the bottles in 
the shiny bucket. “It isn’t cold, yet. You’re always 
drinking, my dear. Why don’t you just talk ? ” 

“I’ve talked too ruddy much. I’ve talked myself all 
out to Jake.” 

“I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When 
you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all.’ v 

“Leave ’em for you to finish. Let any one finish them 
as they like.” 

“It is a very interesting system,” the count reached 
down and gave the bottles a twirl. “Still I would like s 
to hear you talk some time.” 

“Isn’t he a fool?” Brett asked. 

“Now,” the count brought up a bottle. “I think this 
is cool.” 

I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and 
held it up. “ I like to drink champagne from magnums. 
The wine is better but it would have been too hard to 
cool.” He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the 

“I say. You might open it,” Brett suggested. 

“Yes, my dear. Now I’ll open it.” ' 

It was amazing champagne. 

“I say that is wine,” Brett held up her glass. “We 
ought to toast something. ‘Here’s to royalty.’” 

“This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. 
You don’t want to mix emotions up with a wine Hkn C 
that. You lose the taste.” 



Bretts glass was empty. 

“You ought to write a book on wines, count/’ I said. 

“Mr. Barnes,” answered the count, “all I want out of 
wines is to enjoy them.” 

“Let’s enjoy a little more of this,” Brett pushed her 
glass forward. The count poured very carefully. “ There, 
my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can 
get drunk.” 

“Drunk? Drunk?” 

<f“My dear, you are charming when you are drunk.” 

“Listen to the man.” 

“Mr. Barnes,” the count poured my glass full. “She 
is the only lady I have ever known who was as charming 
when she was drunk as when she was sober.” 

J^You haven’t been around much, have you?” 

“Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I 
have been around a very great deal.” 

“Drink your wine,” said Brett. “We’ve all been 
around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you 

“My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don’t 
think I don’t think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too.” 

“Of course you have, my dear,” Brett said. “I was 
only ragging.” 

“I have been in seven wars and four revolutions,” the 
count said. 

“Soldiering?” Brett asked. 

“Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. 
Have you ever seen arrow wounds?” 

“Let’s have a look at them.” 

The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened 
his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest 
and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles 
bulging under the light. 


“You see them?” 

Below the line where his rios stopped were two raised 
white welts. “See on the back where they come out.” 
Above the small of the back were the same two scars, 
raised as thick as a finger. 

“I say. Those are something.” 

“Clean through.” 

The count was tucking in his shirt. 

“Where did you get those?” I asked. 

“In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old.” 

“What were you doing?” asked Brett. “Were you 
in the army?” 

“I was on a business trip, my dear.” 

“ I told you he was one of us. Didn’t I ? ” Brett 
to me. “I love you, count. You’re a darling.” 

“You make me very happy, my dear. But i 

“Don’t be an ass.” 

“You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived ve 

much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don) 

you find it like that ? ” 

“Yes. Absolutely.” 

“I know,” said the count. “T hat is the secret. You r 
must get to know t hg_.values ” 

“Doesn’t anything ever happen to your values?” 
Brett asked. 

“No. Not any more.” 

“Never fall in love?” 

“Always,” said the count. “I am alw ays in love.” C 
“What does that do to your values?” 

“That, too, has got a place in my values.” 

“You haven’t any values. You’re dead, that’s all.” 6 
“No, my dear. You’re not right. I’m not dead at all.” ~ 
We drank three bottles of the champagne and the 



count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a 
restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had 
an excellent place in the count’s values. So did wine. 
The count was in fine form during the meal. So was 
Brett. It was a good party. 

_ “Where would you like to go?” asked the count after 
dinner. We were the only people left in the restaurant. 
The two waiters were standing over against the door. 
They wanted to go home. 

“We-might go up on the hill,” Brett said. “Haven’t 
we had a splendid party?” 

The count was beaming. He was very happy. 

“You are very nice people,” he said. He was smoking 
a cigar again. LWhy don’t you get married, you two?” 

• (“We want to lead our own lives,” I said. 
f Z“We have our careers,” Brett said. “Come on. Let’s, 
get out of this.^J 

“Have another brandy,” the count said. 

“Get it on the hill.” 

“No. Have it here where it is quiet.” 

“You and your quiet,” said Brett. “What is it men 
feel about quiet?” 

“We like it,” said the count. “Like you like noise, 
my dear.” 

“All right,” said Brett. “Let’s have one.” 

“SommelierI” the count called. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“What is the oldest brandy you have?” 

“Eighteen eleven, sir.” 

“Bring us a bottle.” 

“I say. Don’t be ostentatious. Call him off, Jake.” 

“Listen, my dear. I get more value for my money in 
old brandy than in any other antiquities.” 

“Got many antiquities?” 



“I got a houseful.” 

Finally we went up to Montmartre. Inside Zelli’s it 
was crowded, smoky, and noisy. The music hit you as 
you went in. Brett and I danced. It was so crowded we 
could barely move. The nigger drummer waved at 
Brett. We were caught in the jam, dancing in one place 
in front of him. 

“Hahre you?” 

“ Great.” 

“Thaats good.” 

He was all teeth and lips. 

“He’s a great friend of mine,” Brett said. “Damn 
good drummer.” 

The music stopped and we started toward the table 
where the count sat. Then the music started again and 
we danced. I looked at the count. He was sitting at the 
table smoking a cigar. The music stopped again. 

“Let’s go over.” 

Brett started toward the table. The music started 
and again we danced, tight in the crowd. 

“You are a rotten dancer, Jake. Michael’s the best 
dancer I know.” 

“He’s splendid.” 

“He’s got his points.” 

“I like him,” I said. “I’m damned fond of him.” 

/5‘Tm going to marry him,” Brett said. “Funny. I 
haven’t thought about him for a week.’y 4 

“Don’t you write him?” 

“Not I. Never write letters.” 

“I’ll bet he writes to you.” 

“Rather. Damned good letters, too.” 

“When are you going to get married?” 

“How do I know? As soon as we can get the divorce. 
Michael’s trying to get his mother to put up for it.” 




“Could I help you?” 

“Don’t be an ass. Michael’s people have loads of 

The music stopped. We walked over to the table. 
The count stood up. 

“Very nice,” he said. “You looked very, very 


“Don’t you dance, count?” I asked. 

“No. I’m too old.” 

“Oh, come off it,” Brett said. 

“My dear, I would do it if I would enjoy it. I enjoy 
to watch you dance.” 

“Splendid,” Brett said. “I’ll dance again for you 
some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?” 

“Let me tell you. I support that boy, but I don’t 
want to have him around.” 

“He is rather hard.” 

p “You know I think that boy’s got a future. But per¬ 
sonally I don’t want him around.” 

“Jake’s rather the same way.” 

“He gives me the willys.” 

“Well,” the count shrugged his shoulders. “About his 
future you can’t ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great 
friend of my father.” 

‘"Come on. Let’s dance,” Brett said. 

We danced. It was crowded and close. 

5 F&h, darling,” Brett said, “I’m so miserable.” 

D had that feeling of going through something that 
has all happened before. “You were happy a minute 

The drummer shouted: “You can’t two time 
“It’s all gone.” 

“What’s the matter?” 

“I don’t know. I just feel terribly.” 


“.” the drummer chanted. Then turned to 

his sticks. 

“Want to go?” 

I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being some¬ 
thing repeated, something I had been through and that 
now I must go through again. 

“.” the drummer sang softly. 

“Let’s go,” said Brett. “You don’t mind.” 

“.” the drummer shouted and grinned at 


“All right,” I said. We got out from the crowd. 
Brett went to the dressing-room. 

“Brett wants to go,” I said to the count. He nodded. 
“Does she? That’s fine. You take the car. I’m going 
to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes.” 

We shook hands. 

“It was a wonderful time,” I said. “I wish you would 
let me get this.” I took a note out of my pocket. 

“Mr. Barnes, don’t be ridiculous,” the count said. 

Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the 
count and put her hand on his shoulder to keep him from 
standing up. As we went out the door I looked back 
and there were three girls at his table. We got into the 
big car. Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her 

“No, don’t come up,” she said at the hotel. She had 
rung and the door was unlatched. 


“No. Please.” 

“Good night, Brett,” I said. “I’m sorry you feel rot¬ 


“ Good night, Jake. Good night, darling. I won’t see 
you again.” We kissed standing at the door. She pushed 
me away. We kissed again. “Oh, don’t!” Brett said. 



She turned quickly and went into the hotel. The 
chauffeur drove me around to my flat. I gave him 
twenty francs and he touched his cap and said: “Good 
night, sir,” and drove off. I rang the bell. The door 
opened and I went up-stairs and went to bed. 






I did not see Brett again until she came back from 
San Sebastian. One card came' from her from there. It 
had a picture of the Concha, and said: “Darling. Very 
quiet and healthy. Love to all the chaps. Brett.” 

Nor did I see Robert Cohn again. I heard Frances 
had left for England and I had a note from Cohn say¬ 
ing he was going out in the country for a couple of weeks, 
he did not know where, but that he wanted to hold me 
to the fishing-trip in Spain we had talked about last 
winter. I could reach him always, he wrote, through his 

Brett was gone, I was not bothered by Cohn’s troubles, 
I rather enjoyed not having to play tennis, there was 
plenty of work to dc I went often to the races, dined 
with friends, and put in some extra time at the office 
getting things ahead so I could leave it in charge of my 
secretary when Bill Gorton and I should shove off to 
Spain the end of June. Bill Gorton arrived, put up a 
couple of days at the flat aii3 went off to Vienna. Tie 
was very cheerful and said the States were wonderful. 
New York was wonderful. There had been a grand the¬ 
atrical season and a whole crop of great young light 
heavyweights. Any one of them was a good prospect 
to grow up, put on weight and trim Dempsey. Bill was 
very happy. He had made a lot of money on his last 
book, and was going to make a lot more. We had a good 
time while he was in Paris, and then he went off to 
Vienna. He was coming back in three weeks and we 
would leave for Spain to get in some fishing and go to 
the fiesta at Pamplona. He wrote that Vienna was 




wonderful. Then a card from Budapest: “ Jake, Budapest 
is wonderful.” Then I got a wire: “Back on Monday.” 

Monday evening he turned up at the flat. I heard 
his tapd stop and went to the window and called to him; 
he waved and started up-stairs carrying his bags. I 
, met him on the stairs, and took one of the bags. 

“Well,” I said, “I hear you had a wonderful trip.” 

“ Wonderfu l,” he said. “Budapest is absolutely won¬ 

“How about Vienna?” 

“Not so good, Jake. Not so good. It seemed better 
than it was.” 

“How do you mean?” I was getting glasses and a 

Tight, Jake. I was tight.” 

/That’s strange. Better have a drink.” 

Bill rubbed his forehead. “Remarkable thing,” he 
said. “Don’t know how it happened. Suddenly it hap¬ 

“Last long?” 

“Four days, Jake. Lasted just four days.” 

,viiere did you go?” 

“Don’t remember. Wrote you a post-card. Remem¬ 
ber that perfectly.” 

“Do anything else?” 

“Not so sure. Possible.” 

“Go on. Tell me about it.” 

“ Can’t remember. Tell you anything I could remem¬ 

“Go on. Take that drink and remember.” 

“Might remember a little,” Bill said. “Remember 
Something about a prize-fight. Enormous Vienna prize¬ 
fight. Had a nigger in it. Remember the nigger per¬ 



“Go on.” 

“Wonderful nigger. Looked like Tiger Flowers, only 
four times as big. All of a sudden everybody started to 
throw things. Not me. Nigger’d just knocked local 
boy down. Nigger put up his glove. Wanted to make 
a speech. Awful noble-looking nigger. Started to make 
a speech. Then local white boy hit him. Then he knocked 
white boy cold. Then everybody commenced to throw 
chairs. Nigger went home with us in our car. Couldn’t 
get his clothes. Wore my coat. Remember the whole 
thing now. Big sporting evening.” 

“What happened?” 

“Loaned the nigger some clothes and went around 
with him to try and get his money. Claimed nigger 
owed them money on account of wrecking hall. Wonder 
who translated? Was it me?” 

“Probably it wasn’t you.” 

“You’re right. Wasn’t me^at all. Was another fellow. 
Think we called him the local Harvard man. Remem¬ 
ber him now. Studying music.” 

“How’d you come out?” 

“Not so good, Jake. Injustice everywhere. Promoter 
claimed nigger promised let local boy stay. Claimed 
nigger violated contract. Can’t knock out Vienna boy 
in Vienna. ‘My God, Mister Gorton,’ said nigger, ‘I 
didn’t do nothing in there for forty minutes but try and /U 
let him stay. That white boy musta ruptured himself 
swinging at me. I never did hit him.’” 

“Did you get any money?” 

“No money, Jake. All we could get was nigger’s 
clothes. Somebody took his watch, too. Splendid nigger. 

Big mistake to have come to Vienna. Not so good, Jake. 

Not so good.” 

“What became of the nigger?” 



“Went back to Cologne. Lives there. Married. Got 
a family. Going p- write me a letter and send me the 
money I loaned him. Wonderful nigger. Hope I gave 
him the right address.” 

“You probably did.” 

^ “Well, anyway, let’s eat,” said Bill. “Unless you 
want me to tell you some more travel stories.” 


“Let’s eat.” 

We went down-stairs and out onto me Boulevard St. 
Michel in the warm June evening. 

“Where will we go?” 

“Want to eat on the island?” 


We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of 
the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a 
statue of two men in flowing robes. 

“I know who they are.” Bill eyes the monument. 
“Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don’t try and 
fool me on Paris.” 

We went on. 

“Here’s a taxidermist’s,” Bill said. “Want to buy 
anything? Nice stuffed dog?” 

“Come on,” I said. “You’re pie-eyed.” 

“Pretty nice stuffed dogs,” Bill said. “Certainly 
brighten up your flat.” 

“Come on.” 

“Just one stuffed dog. I can take ’em or leave ’em 
alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog.” 

“Come on.” 

“Mean everything in the world to you after you 
bought it./'Simple exchange of values/ You give them 
money. They give you a stuffed dog.”' 

“We’ll get one on the way back.” 


“All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved 
with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault.” 

We went on. 

“How’d you feel that way about dogs so sudden?” 

“Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a 
great lover of stuffed animals.” 

We stopped and had a drink. 

“Certainly like to drink,” Bill said. “You ought to 
try it sometimes, Jake.” , ^ 

iiyou’re about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me J v 

“Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret 
of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted 
in public.” 

“Where were you drinking?” 

“Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple 
of Jack Roses. George’s a great man. Know the secret /- 
of his success? Never b een da unted.” X 

“You’ll be daunted after about three more pernods.” 

“Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I’ll go off 
by myself. I’m like a cat that way.” 

“When did you see Harvey Stone?” 

“At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted, r 
Hadn’t eaten for three days. Doesn’t eat any more. ' 
Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad.” 

“He’s all right.” 

“Splendid. Wish he wouldn’t keep going off like a 
cat, though. Makes me nervous.” 

“What’ll we do to-night?” 

•Doesn’t make any difference. Only let’s not get 
daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? 

If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn’t have to 
go all the way down to the island to eat.” 

“Nik,” I said. “We’re going to have a regular 



“Just a suggestion,” said Bill. “Want to start now?” 

“Come on.” 

We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse- 
cab passed us. Bill looked at it. 

“See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab 
stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my 
friends stuffed animals. I’m a nature-writer.” 

A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for 
the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In 
it was Brett. 

“Beautiful lady,” said Bill. “Going to kidnap us.” 

“ Hullo! ” Brett said. “ Hullo! ” 

“This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley.” 

Brett smiled at Bill. “ I say I’m just back. Haven’t 
bathed even. Michael comes in to-night.” 

“Good. Come on and eat with us, and we’ll all go 
to meet him.” 

“Must clean myself.” 

“Oh, rot! Come on.” 

“Must bathe. He doesn’t get in till nine.” 

“ Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe.” 
y'S‘ Might do that. Now you’re not talking rot.”< 

We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. 

“Stop at the nearest bistro,” I said. v.- 

“We might as well go to the Closerie,” Brett said. 
“I can’t drink these rotten brandies.”, 

“Closerie des Lilas.” f 

Brett turned to Bill. 

“Have you been in this pestilential city long?” 

“Just got in to-day from Budapest.” 

“How was Budapest?” 

“Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful.” 

“Ask him about Vienna.” 

“Vienna,” said Bill, “is a strange city.” 



“Very much like Paris,” Brett smiled at him, wrin¬ 
kling the corners of her eyes. 

“Exactly,” Bill said. “Very much like Paris at this 

“You have a good start.” 

Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered 
a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took an¬ 
other pernod. 

“How are you, Jake?” 

“Great,” I said. “Pve had a good time.” 

Brett looked at me. “I was a fool to go away,” she^ 
said. “One’s an ass to leave Paris? 1 

“Did you have a good time?” 

“Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing. 
“See anybody?” 

“No, hardly anybody. I never went outy^ 

“Didn’t you swim?” 

“No. Didn’t do a thing.^- 
“ Sounds like Vienna,” Bill said. 

Brett wrinkled up the comers of her eyes at him. 

“So that’s the way it was in Vienna.” 

“It was like everything in Vienna.” 

Brett smiled at him again. 

“You’ve a nice friend, Jake,” , v 

“He’s all right,” I said. ‘/He’s a taxidermist.-^ 
£That was in.another country ” Bill said. “And be¬ 
sides all the animals were dead.”*^^ 

“One more,” Brett said, “and I must run. Do send 
the waiter for a taxi.” 

“There’s a line of them. Right out in front.” 

We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. 

“Mind you’re at the Select around ten. Make him 
corae. Michael will be there.” 

7 8 


“Well be there,” Bill said. The taxi started and 
Brett waved. 

“Quite a girl,” Bill said. “She's damned nice. Who’s 
Michael ? ” 

“The man she’s going to marry.” 

“Well, well,” Bill said. “That’s always just the stage 
I meet anybody. What’ll I send them? Think they’d 
like a couple of stuffed race-horses?” 

“We better eat.” 

f “Is she really Lady something cr other?” Bill asked 
in the taxi on our way down to the lie Saint Louis. 

“Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything.” 

“Well, well.” 

We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte’s restaurant on 
the far side of the island. It was crowded with Ameri¬ 
cans and we had to stand up and wait for a place. Some 
one had put it in the American Women’s Club list as a 
quaint restaurant on the Paris quais as yet u ntou ched 
by Americans, so we had to wait forty-five minutes for 
a table. Bill had eaten at the restaurant in 1918, and 
right after the armistice, and Madame Lecomte made 
a great fuss over seeing him. 

r “Doesn’t get us a table, though,” Bill said. “Grand 
woman, though.” 

We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, 
mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and 

“You’ve got the world here all right,” Bill said to 
Madame Lecomte. She raised her hand. “Oil, my 

“You’ll be rich.” 

“I hope so.” 

After the coffee and a fine we got the bill, chalked up 
the same as ever on a slate, that was doubtless one of 


the “quaint” features, paid it, shook hands, and went 

“You never come here any more, Monsieur Barnes,” 
Madame Lecomte said. 

“Too many compatriots.” ^ 

“Come at lunch-time. It’s not crowded then.” 

“Good. I’ll be down soon.” 

We walked along under the trees that grew out over \ 
the river on the Quai d’Orleans side of the island. Across 
the river were the broken walls of old houses that were 
being torn down. 

“They’re going to cut a street through.” 

“They would,” Bill said. 

We walked on and circled the island. The river was a 
dark and a bateau mouche went by, all bright with lights, 
going fast and quiet up and out of sight under the bridge. 
Down the river was Notre Dame squatting against the 
night sky. We crossed to the left bank of the Seine by 
the wooden foot-bridge from the Quai de Bethune, and 
stopped on the bridge and looked down the river at 
Notre Dame. Standing on the bridge the island looked 
dark, the houses were high against the sky, and the trees 
were shadows. 

“It’s pretty grand,” Bill said. “God, I love to get 

We leaned on the wooden rail of the bridge and looked 
up the river to the lights of the big bridges. Below the 
water was smooth and black. It made no sound against 
the piles of the bridge. A man and a girl passed us. 
They were walking with their arms around each other. 

We crossed the bridge and walked up the Rue du 
Cardinal Lemoine. It was steep walking, and we went 
all the way up to the Place Contrescarpe. The arc-light 
shone through the leaves of the trees in the square, and 



underneath the trees was an S bus ready to start. Music 
came out of the door of the Negre Joyeux. Through the 
window of the Cafe Aux Amateurs I saw the long zinc 
bar. Outside on the terrace working people were drink¬ 
ing. In the open kitchen of the Amateurs a girl was 
cooking potato-chips in oil. There was an iron pot of 
stew. The girl ladled some onto a plate for an old man 
who stood holding a bottle of red wine in one hand. 

“Want to have a drink?” 

' “No,” said Bill. “I don’t need it.” 

. turned to the right off the Place Contrescarpe, 
walking along smooth narrow streets with high old 
houses on both sides. Some of the houses jutted out 
toward the street. Others were cut back. We came onto 
the Rue du Pot de Fer and followed it along until it 
brought us to the rigid north and south of the Rue Saint 
Jacques and then walked south, past Val de Grace, set 
back behind the courtyard and the iron fence, to the 
Boulevard du Port Royal. 

“What do you want to do?” I asked. “Go up to the 
caf6 and see Brett and Mike?” 

“Why not?” 

We walked along Port Royal until it became Mont¬ 
parnasse, and then on past the Lilas, Lavigne’s, and all 
the little cafes, Damoy’s, crossed the street to the Ro- 
tonde, past its lights and tables to the Select. 

Michael came toward us from the tables. He was 
tanned and healthy-looking. 

“Hel-lo, Jake,” he said. “Hel-lo! Hel-lo! H^w are 
you, old lad ? ” v 

“You look very fit, Mike.” 

“Oh, I am. I’m frightfully fit. I’ve done nothing but 
walk. Walk all day long. One drink a day with my 
mother at tea.” 



Bill had gone into the bar. He was standing talking 
with B**ett, who was sitting on a high stool, her legs 
crossed. She had no stockings on. 

“It’s g 'od to see you, Jake,” Michael said. “I’m a 
little tight you know. Amazing, isn’t it? Did you see 
my nose?” 

There was a patch of dried blood on the bridge of his 

“An old lady’s bags did that,” Mike said. “I reached 
up to help her vrith them and they fell on me.” 

Brett gestured at him from the bar with her cigarette- 
holder and wrinkled the comers of her eyes. 

“An old lady,” said Mike. “Her bags fell on me. v 

“Let’s go in and see Brett. I say, she is a piece. You 
are a lovely lady, Brett. Where did you get that hat? ,r 

“Chap bought it for me. Don’t you like it?” 

“It’s a dreadful hat. Do get a good hat.” 

“Oh, we’ve so much money now,” Brett said. “I say, 
haven’t you met Bill yet? You are a lovely host, 

She turned to Mike. “This is Bill Gorton. This 
drunkard is Mike Campbell. Mr. Campbell is an un¬ 
discharged bankrupt.” 

“Aren’t I, though? You know I met my ex-partner 
yesterday in London. Chap who did me in.” 

“What did he say?” 

“ Bought me a drink. I thought I might as well take 
it. I say, Brett, you are a lovely piece. Don’t you think 
she’s beautiful ? ” 

“Beautiful. With this nose?” 

“It’s a lovely nose. Go on, point it at me. Isn’t she 
a lovely piece?” 

“Couldn’t we have kept the man in Scotland?” 

“I say, Brett, let’s turn in early.” 



“Don’t be indecent, Michael. Remember there are 
ladies at this bar.” 

“ Isn’t she a lovely piece ? Don’t you think so, Jake ? ” 

“There’s a fight to-night,” Rill said. “Like to go?” 

“Fight,” said Mike. “Who’s fighting?” 

“Ledoux and somebody.” 

(\ “He’s very good, Ledoux,” Mike said. “I’d like to 
see it, rather”—he was making an effort to pull himself 
together—“but I can’t go. I have a date with this thing 
here. I say Brett, dc get a new hat.” 

Brett pulled the felt hat down far over one eye and 
smiled out from under it. “You two run along to the 
fight. I’ll have to be taking Mr. Campbell home di¬ 

“I’m not tight,” Mike said. “Perhaps just a little. 
I say, Brett, you are a lovely piece.” 

“Go on to the fight,” Brett said. “Mr. Campbell’s 
getting difficult. What are these outbursts of affection, 
Michael ? ” 

“I say, you are a lovely piece.” 

We said good night. “I’m sorry I can’t go,” Mike 
said. Brett laughed. I looked back from the door. 
Mike had one hand on the bar and was leaning toward 
Brett, talking. Brett was looking at him quite coolly, 
but the corners of her eyes were smiling. 

Outside on the pavement I said: “Do you want to 
go to the fight?” 

“Sure,” said Bill. “If we don’t have to walk.” 

“Mike was pretty excited about his girl friend,” I 
said in the taxi. 

“Well,” said Bill. “You can’t blame him such a hell 
of a lot.” 


The Ledoux-Kid Francis fight was the night of the 
20th of June. It was a good fight. The morning after 
the fight I had a letter from Robert Cohn, written from 
Hendaye. He was having a very quiet time, he said, 
bathing, playing some golf and much bridge. Hendaye 
had a splendid beach, but he was anxious to start on 
the fishing-trip. When would I be down? If I would 
buy him a double-tapered line he would pay me when 
I came down. 

That same morning I wrote Cohn from the office that 
Bill and I would leave Paris on the 25th unless I wired 
him otherwise, and would meet him at Bayonne, where 
we could get a bus over the mountains to Pamplona. 
The same eyening about seven o’clock I stopped in at 
the Select to see Michael and Brett. They were not there, 
and I went over to the Dingo. They were inside sitting 
at the bar. 

“Hello, darling.” Brett put out her hand. 

“Hello, Jake,” Mike said. “I understand I was tight 
last night.” 

“Weren’t you, though,” Brett said. “Disgraceful 

“Look,” said Mike, “when do you go down to Spain? 
Would you mind if we came down with you?” 

“It would be grand.” 

“You wouldn’t mind, really? I’ve been at Pamplona, 
you know. Brett’s mad to go. You’re sure we wouldn’t 
just be a bloody nuisance?” 




“Don’t talk like a fool.” 

“I'm a little tight, you know. I wouldn’t ask you like 
this if I weren’t. You’re sure you don’t mind?” 

“Oh, shut up, Michael,” Brett said. “How can the 
man say he’d mind now? I’ll ask him later.” 

“But you don’t mind, do you?” 

“Don’t ask that again unless you want to make me 
sore. Bill and I go down on the morning of the 25th.” 

“By the way, where is Bill?” Brett asked. 

“He’s out at Chantilly dining with some people.” 

“He’s a good chap.” 

“Splendid chap,” said Mike. “He is, you know.” 

“You don’t remember him,” Brett said. 

“I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we’ll 
come down the night of the 25th. Brett can’t get up 
in the morning.” 

“Indeed not!” 

“If our money comes and you’re sure you don’t mind.” 

“It will come, all right. I’ll see to that.” 

“Tell me what tackle to send for.” 

“ Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some 

“I won’t fish,” Brett put in. 

“Get two rods, then, and Bill won’t have to buy 

“Right,” said Mike. “I’ll send a wire to the keeper.” 
fi “Won’t it be splendid,” Brett said. “Spain! We will 
have fun.” 

“The 25th. When is that?” 


“We will have to get ready.” 

“I say,” said Mike, “I’m going to the barber’s.” 

“I must bathe,” said Brett. “Walk up to the hotel 
with me, Jake. Be a good chap.” 


“We have got the loveliest hotel,” Mike said. “I think 
it’s a brothel! ” 

“We left our bags here at the Dingo when we got in, 
and they asked us at this hotel if we wanted a room for 
the afternoon only. Seemed frightfully pleased we were 
going to stay all night.” 

“/ believe it’s a brothel,” Mike said. “And I should 

“Oh, shut it and go and get your hair cut.” 

Mike went out. Brett and I sat on at the bar. 
“Have another?” 


“I needed that,” Brett said. 

We walked up the Rue Delambre. 

“I haven’t seen you since I’ve been back,” Brett said. 

“How are you, Jake?” 


Brett looked at me. “I say,” she said, “is Robert 
Cohn going on this trip?” 

“Yes. Why?” 

“Don’t you think it will be a bit rough on him?” 
“Why should it?” 

fWho did you think I went down to San Sebastian 

“Congratulations,” I said. ; -A 
We walked along. 

“What did you say that for?” 

“I don’t know. What would you like me to say?” 
We walked along and turned a corner. 

“He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull.” 
“Does he?” 

“I rather thought it would be good for him.” 

“You might take up social service.” ^ 



“Don’t be nasty.” 

“I won’t.” 

^‘Didn’t you really know?” 

“No,” I said. “I guess I didn’t think about it.” 

“Do you think it will be too rough on him?” 

“That’s up to him,” I said. “Tell him you’re com¬ 
ing. He can always not come.” 

“ I’ll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it.” 

I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th 
of June. 

“Did you hear from Cohn?” 

“ Rather. He’s keen about it.” 

“My God!” 

“I thought it was rather odd myself.” 

“Says he can’t wait to see me.” 

“Does he think you’re coming alone?” 

“No. I told him we were all coming down together. 
Michael and all.” 

“He’s wonderful.” 

“Isn’t he?” 

They expected their money the next day. We ar¬ 
ranged to meet at Pamplona. They would go directly 
to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We 
would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they 
did not turn up on Monday at the latest we would go 
pn ahead up to Burguete in the mountains, to start 
fishing. There was a bus to Burguete. I wrote out an 
itinerary so they could follow us. 

Bill and I took the morning train from the Gare 
d’Orsay. It was a lovely day, not too hot, and the coun¬ 
try w r as beautiful from the start. We went back info 
the diner and had breakfast. Leaving the dining-car I 
asked the conductor for tickets for the first service. 

“Nothing until the fifth.” 


87 ’ 

“What’s this?” 

There were never more than two servings of lunch on 
that train, and always plenty of places for both of them. 

“They’re all reserved,” the dining-car conductor said. 
“'There will be a fifth service at three-thirty.” 

“This is serious,” I said to Bill. 

“Give him ten francs.” 

“Here,” I said. “We want to eat in the first service.” 

The conductor put the ten francs in his pocket. 

“Thank you,” he said. “I would advise you gentle¬ 
men to get some sandwiches. All the places for the first 
four services were reserved at the office of the company.” 

“You’ll go a long way, brother,” Bill said to him in 
English. “I suppose if I’d given you five francs you 
would have advised us to jump off the train.” 


“Go to hell!” said Bill. “Get the sandwiches made 
and a bottle of w T ine. You tell him, Jake.” 

“And send it up to the next car.” I described where 
we were. 

In our compartment were a man and his wife and their 
young son. 

“I suppose you’re Americans, aren’t you?” the man 
asked. “Having a good trip?” 

“Wonderful,” said Bill. 

“That’s what you want to do. Travel while you’re 
young. Mother and I always wanted to get over, but 
we had to wait a while.” 

“You could have come over ten years ago, if you’d 
wanted to,” the wife said. “What you always said was: 
'See America first!’ I will say we’ve seen a good deal, 
take it one way and another.” 

“Say, there’s plenty of Americans on this train/’ the 
husband said. “They’ve got seven cars of them from 



Dayton, Ohio. They’ve been on a pilgrimage to Rome, 
and now they’re going down to Biarritz and Lourdes.” 
\ , “So, that’s what they are. Pilgrims. Goddam Puri¬ 
tans,” Bill said. 

“What part of the States you boys from?” 

“Kansas City,” I said. “He’s from Chicago.” 

“You both going to Biarritz?” 

“No. We’re going fishing in Spain.” 

“Well, I never cared for it, myself. There’s plenty 
that do out where I come from, though. We got some 
of the best fishing in the State of Montana. I’ve been 
out with the boys, but I never cared for it any.” 

“Mighty little fishing you did on them trips,” his 
wife said. 

He winked at us. 

“You know how the ladies are. If there’s a jug goes 
along, or a case of beer, they think it’s hell and damna¬ 

“That’s the way men are,” his wife said to us. She 
smoothed her comfortable lap. “I voted against prohi¬ 
bition to please him, and because I like a little beer in 
the house, and then he talks that way. It’s a wonder 
they ever find any one to marry them.” 

“Say,” said Bill, “do you know that gang of Pilgrim 
Fathers have cornered the dining-car until half past 
three this afternoon?” 

“How do you mean ? They can’t do a thing like that.” 

“You try and get seats.” 

“Well, mother, it looks as though we better go back 
and get another breakfast.” 

She stood up and straightened her dress. 

“Will you boys keep an eye on our things? Come on, 

They all three went up to the wagon restaurant A 



little while after they were gone a steward went through 
announcing the first service, and pilgrims, with their 
priests, commenced filing down the corridor. Our friend 
and his family did not come back. A waiter passed in 
the corridor with our sandwiches and the bottle of 
Chablis, and we called him in. 

“ You’re going to work to-day,” I said. 

He nodded his head. “They start now, at ten-thirty.” 

“When do we eat?” 

“Huh! When do I eat?” 

He left two glasses for the bottle, and we paid him for 
the sandwiches and tipped him. 

“Ill get the plates,” he said, “or bring them with 

We ate the sandwiches and drank the .Chablis and 
watched the country out of the window. The grain was 
just beginning to ripen and the fields were full of poppies. 
The pastureland was green, and there were fine trees, 
and sometimes big rivers and chateaux off in the trees. 

At Tours we got off and bought another bottle of wine, 
and when we got back in the compartment the gentle¬ 
man from Montana and his wife and his son, Hubert, 
were sitting comfortably. 

“Is there good swimming in Biarritz?” asked Hubert. 

“That boy’s just crazy till he can get in the water,” 
his mother said. “It’s pretty hard on youngsters trav¬ 

“There’s good swimming,” I said. “But it’s danger- 
ous when it’s lough.” 

“Did you'get a meal?” Bill asked. 

“WJd sure did. We set right there when they started 
to come in, and they must have just thought we were in 
the party. One of the waiters said something to us in 
French, and then they just sent three of them back.” 

9 o 


“They thought we were snappers, all right,” the man 
said. “ It certainly shows you the power of the Catholic 
Church. It’s a pity you boys ain’t Catholics. You could 
get a meal, then, all right.” 

jT“I am,” I said. “That’s what makes me so sore.” 

Finally at a quarter past four we had lunch. Bill had 
been rather difficult at the last. He buttonholed a priest 
who was coming back with one of the returning streams 
of pilgrims. 

/' “When do us Protestants get a chance to eat, father?” 

“I don’t know anything about it. Haven’t you got 

-• “It’s enough to make a man join the Klan,” Bill said. 
The priest looked back at him. 

Inside the dining-car the waiters served the fifth suc¬ 
cessive table d’hote meal. The waiter who served us 
was soaked through. His white jacket was purple under 
the arms. 

“He must drink a lot of wine.” 

“Or wear purple undershirts.” 

“Let’s ask him.” 

“No. He’s too tired.” 

The train stopped for half an hour at Bordeaux and 
we went out through the station for a little walk. There 
was not time to get in to the town. Afterward we passed 
through the Landes and watched the sun set. There 
were wide fire-gaps cut through the pines, and you could 
look up them like avenues and see wooded hills way off. 
About seven-thirty we had dinner and watched the 
country through the open window in the diner. It was 
all sandy pine country full of heather. There were little 
clearings with houses in them, and once in a while we 
passed a sawmill. It got dark and we could feel the 
country hot and sandy and dark outside of the window, 



and about nine o’clock we got into Bayonne. The nr„o 
and his wife and Hubert all shook hands with us. They 
were going on to LaNegresse to change for Biarritz. 

“Well, I hope you have lots of luck,” he said. 

“Be careful about those bull-fights.” 

“Maybe we’ll see you at Biarritz,” Hubert said. 

We got off with our bags and rod-cases and passed 
through the dark station and out to the lights and the 
line of cabs and hotel buses. There, standing with the 
hotel runners, was Robert Cohn. He did not see us at 
first. Then he started forward. 

“Hello, Jake. Have a good trip?” 

“Fine,” I said. “This is Bill Grundy.” 

“How are you?” 

“ Come on,” said Robert. “ I’ve got a cab. ” He was a 
little near-sighted. I had never noticed it before. He 
was looking at Bill, trying to make him out. He was 
shy, too. 

“We’ll go up to my hotel. It’s all right. It’s quite 

• >> 

We got into the cab, and the cabman put the bags up 
on the seat beside him and climbed up and cracked liis 
whip, and we drove over the dark bridge and into the 

“I’m awfully glad to meet you,” Robert said to Bill. 
“I’ve heard so much about you from Jake and I’ve 
read your books. Did you get my line, Jake?” 

The cab stopped in front of the hotel and we all got' 
out and went in. It was a nice hotel, and the people at 
the desk were very cheerful, and we each had a good 
small room. 

9 ° 



In the morning it was bright, and they were sprinkling 
the streets of the town, and we all had breakfast in a 
cafe. Bayonne is a nice town. It is like a very clean 
Spanish town and it is on a big river. Already, so early 
in the morning, it was very hot on the bridge across the 
river. We walked out on the bridge and then took a 
walk through the "town. 

I was not at all sure Mike’s rods would come from 
Scotland in time, so ye hunted a tackle store and finally 
bought a rod for Bill up-stairs over a drygoods store. 
The man who sold the tackle was out, and we had to 
wait for him to come back. Finally he came in, and we 
bought a pretty good rod cheap, and two landing-nets. 

We we nL^uLmto the street again and took a look at 
the cathedral. Cohn made some remark about it being 
a very good example of something or other, I forget 
what. It seemed like a nice cathedral, nice and dim, like 
Spanish churches. Then we went up past the old fort 
and out to the local Syndicat dTnitiative office, where the 
bus was supposed to start from. There they told us the 
bus service did not start until the ist of July. We found 
out at the tourist office what we ought to pay for a 
motor-car to Pamplona and hired one at a big garage 
just around the corner from the Municipal Theatre for 
four hundred francs. The car was to pick us up at the 
hotel in forty minutes, and we stopped at the cafe on 
the square where we had eaten breakfast, and had a 
beer. It was hot, but the town had a cool, fresh, early- 
morning smell and it was pleasant sitting in the cafe. 
A breeze started to blow, and you could feel that the 




air came from the sea. There were pigeons out in the 
square, and the houses were a yellow, sun-baked color, 
and I did not want to leave the cafe. But we had to go 
to the hotel to get our bags packed and pay the bill. 
We paid for the beers, we matched and I think Cohn 
paid, and went up to the hotel. It was only sixteen 
francs apiece for Bill and me, with ten per cent added 
for the service, and we had the bags sent down and 
waited for Robert Cohn. While we were waiting I saw 
a cockroach on the parquet floor that must have been 
at least three inches long. I pointed him out to Bill 
and then put my shoe on him. We agreed he must have 
just come in from the garden. It was really an awfully 
clean hotel. 

Cohn came down, finally, and we all went out to the 
car. It was a big, closed car, with a driver in a white 
duster with blue collar and cuffs, and we had him put 
the back of the car down. He piled in the bags and we 
started off up the street and out of the town. We passed 
some lovely gardens and had a good look back at the 
town, and then we were out in the country, green and 
rolling, and the road climbing all the time. We passed 
lots of Basques with oxen, or cattle, hauling carts along 
the road, and nice farmhouses, low roofs, and all white- 
plastered. In the Basque country the land all looks very 
rich and green and the houses and villages look well- 
Dff and clean. Every village had a pelota court and on 
;ome of them kids were playing in the hot sun. ^There 
i r ere signs on the walls of the churches saying it was for¬ 
bidden to play pelota against them, and the houses in ' 
le villages had red tiled roofs, and then the road turned 
OxT and commenced to climb and we were going way up 
close along a hillside, with a valley below and hills 
stretched off back toward the seaTJ You couldn’t see the 



sea. It was too far away. You could see only hills and 
more hills, and you knew where the sea was. 

We crossed the Spanish frontier. There was a little 
stream and a bridge, and Spanish carabineers, with pat¬ 
ent-leather Bonaparte hats, and short guns on their 
backs, on one side, and on the other fat Frenchmen in 
Kepis and mustaches. They only opened one bag and 
took the passports in and looked at them. There was a 
general store and inn on each side of the line. The chauf¬ 
feur had to go in and fill out some papers about the car 
and we got out and went over to the stream to see if 
there were any trout. Bill tried to talk some Spanish 
to one of the carabineers, but it did not go very well. 
Robert Cohn asked, pointing with his finger, if there 
were any trout in the stream, and the carabineer said 
yes, but not many. 

I asked him if he ever fished, and he said no, that he 
didn’t care for it. 

Just then an old man with long, sunburned hair and 
beard, and clothes that looked as though they were 
made of gunny-sacking, came striding up to the bridge. 
He was carrying a long staff, and he had a kid slung on 
his back, tied by the four legs, the head hanging down. 

The carabineer waved him back with his sword. The 
man turned without saying anything, and started back 
up the white road into Spain. 

“What’s the matter with the old one?” I asked. 

“He hasn't got any passport.” > 

I offered the guard a cigarette. He took it and thanked > 
me. a 

“What will he do?” I asked. 

The guard spat in the dust. 

“Oh, he’ll just wade across the stream.” 

“Do you have much smuggling?” 



“Oh,” he said, “they go through.” 

The chauffeur came out, folding up the papers and 
putting them in the inside pocket of his coat. We all 
got in the car and it started up the white dusty road 
into Spain. For a while the country was much as it 
had been; then, climbing all the time, we crossed the 
top of a Col, the road winding back and forth on itself, 
and then it was really Spain. There were long brown 
moun tains and a few pines and far-off forests of beech- 
trees on some of the mountainsides. The road went 
along the summit of the Col and then dropped down, 
and the driver had to honk, and slow up, and turn out 
to avoid running into two donkeys that were sleeping 
in the road. We came down out of the mountains and 
through an oak forest, and there were white cattle graz¬ 
ing in the forest. Down below there were grassy plains 
and clear streams, and then we crossed a stream and 
went through a gloomy little village, and started to climb 
again. We climbed up and up and crossed another high 
Col and turned along it, and the road ran down to the 
right, and we saw a whole new range of mountains off 
to the south, all brown and baked-looking and furrowed 
in strange shapes. 

After a while we came out of the mountains, and there 
were trees along both sides of the road, and a stream 
and ripe fields of grain, and the road went on, very white 
and straight ahead, and then lifted to a little rise, and 
off on the left was a hill with an old castle, with build¬ 
ings close around it and a field of grain going right up 
to the walls and shifting in the wind. I was up in front 
with the driver and I turned around. Robert Cohn was 
asleep, but Bill looked and nodded his head. Then we 
crossed a wide plain, and there was a big river off on the 
right shining in the sun from between the line of trees, 


and away off you could see the plateau of Pamplona 
rising out of the plain, and the walls of the city, and the 
great brown cathedral, and the broken skyline of the 
other churches. In back of the plateau were the moun¬ 
tains, and every way you looked there were other moun¬ 
tains, and ahead the road stretched out white across the 
plain going toward Pamplona. 

We came into the town on the other side of the pla¬ 
teau, the road slanting up steeply and dustily with shade- 
trees on both sides, and then levelling out through the 
new part of town they are building up outside the old 
walls. We passed the bull-ring, high and white and 
concrete-looking in the sun, and then came into the 
big square by a side street and stopped in front of the 
Hotel Montoya. 

The driver helped us down with the bags. There was 
a crowd of kids watching the car, and the square was 
hot, and the trees were green, and the flags hung on their 
staffs, and it was good to get out of the sun and under 
the shade of the arcade that runs all the way around the 
square. Montoya was glad to see us, and shook hands 
and gave us good rooms looking out on the square, and 
then we washed and cleaned up and went down-stairs 
in the dining-room for lunch. The driver stayed for 
lunch, too, and afterward we paid him and he started 
back to Bayonne. 

There are two dining-rooms in the Montoya. One is 
up-stairs on the second floor and looks out on the square. 
The other is down one floor below the level of the square 
and has a door that opens on the back street that the 
bulls pass along when they run through the streets early 
in the morning on their way to the ring. It is always 
cool in the down-stairs dining-room and we had a very 
good lunch. The first meal in Spain was always a shock 



with the hors d’ceuvres, an egg course, two meat courses, 
vegetables, salad, and dessert and fruit. You have to 
drink plenty of wine to get it all down. Robert Cohn 
tried to say he did not want any of the second meat 
course, but we would not interpret for him, and so the 
waitress brought him something else as a replacement, 
a plate of cold meats, I think. Cohn had been rather 
nervous ever since we had met at Bayonne. He did not 
know whether we knew Brett had been with him at San 
Sebastian, and it made him rather awkward. 

“Well,” I said, “Brett and Mike ought to get in to¬ 

“I’m not sure they’ll come,” Cohn said. 

“Why not?” Bill said. “Of course they’ll come.” 

“They’re always late,” I said. 

“I rather think they’re not coming,” Robert Cohn said. 

He said it with an air of superior knowledge that irri¬ 
tated both of us. 

“I’ll bet you fifty pesetas they’re here to-night,” Bill 
said. He always bets when he is angered, and so he 
usually bets foolishly. 

“I’ll take it,” Cohn said. “Good. You remember it, 
Jake. Fifty pesetas.” 

“I’ll remember it myself,” Bill said. I saw he was 
angry and wanted to smooth him down. 

“It’s a sure thing they’ll come,” I said. “But maybe 
not to-night.” 

“Want to call it off?” Cohn asked. 

“No. Why should I? Make it a hundred if you like.” 

“All right. I’ll take that.” 

“That’s enough,” I said. “Or you’ll have to make a 
book and give me some of it.” 

'“I’m satisfied,” Cohn said. He smiled. “You’ll prob* 
ably win it back at bridge, anyway.” 



“You haven’t got it yet,” Bill said. 

We went out to walk around under the arcade to the 
Cafe Iruna for coffee. Cohn said he was going over and 
get a shave. 

“Say,” Bill said to me, “have I got any chance on 
that bet?” 

“You’ve got a rotten chance. They’ve never been on 
time anywhere. If their money doesn’t come it’s a cinch 
they won’t get in to-night.” 

“I was sorry as soon as I opened my mouth. But I 
had to call him. He’s all right, I guess, but where does 
he get this inside stuff? Mike and Brett fixed, it up 
with us about coming down here.” 

I saw Cohn coming over across the square. 

“Here he comes.” -C • 

i “ \yeI4 let him not get sup e rior and Tewish .” 

“The barber shop’s closed,” Cohn said. “It’s not 
open till four.” 

We had coffee at the Iruna, sitting in comfortable 
wicker chairs looking out from the cool of the arcade at 
the big square. After a while Bill went to write some 
letters and Cohn went over to the barber-shop. It was 
still closed, so he decided to go up to the hotel and get 
a bath, and I sat out in front of the cafe and then went 
for a walk in the town. It was very hot, but I kept on 
the shady side of the streets and went through the mar¬ 
ket and had a good time seeing the town again. I went 
to the Ayuntamiento and found the old gentleman who 
subscribes for the bull-fight tickets for me every year, 
and he had gotten the money I sent him from Paris and 
renewed my subscriptions, so that was all set. He was 
the archivist, and all the archives of the town were in 
his office. [That has n othing to do with the story. Any¬ 
way, his office had a green baize door and a big wooden 



door, and when I went out I left him sitting among the 
archives that covered all the walls, and I shut both the 
doors, and as I went out of the building into the street 
the porter stopped me to brush off my coat. 

“You must have been in a motor-car,” he said. 

The back of the collar and the upper part of the 
shoulders were gray with dust. 

“From Bayonne.” 

“Well, well,” he said. “I knew you were in a motor- 
car from the way the dust was.” So I gave him two 
copper coins. 

At the end of the street I saw the cathedral and walked 
up toward it. The first time I ever saw it I thought the 
facade was ugly but I liked it now. I went inside. It 
was dim and dark and the pillars went high up, and 
there were people praying, and it smelt of incense, and 
there were some wonderful big windows. I knelt and 
started to pray and prayed for everybody I thought of, 
Brett and Mike and Bill and Robert Cohn and myself, 
and all the bull-fighters, separately fox' the ones I liked, 
and lumping all the rest, then I prayed for myself again, 
and while I was praying for myself I found I was getting 
sleepy, so I prayed that the bull-fights would be good, 
and that it would be a fine fiesta, and that we would gt- 
some fishing. I wondered if there was anything else l 
might pray for, and I thought I would like to have some 
money, so I prayed that I would make a lot of money, 
and then I started to think how I would make it, and 
thinkin g of making money reminded me of the .count, 
and I started wondering about where he was, and re¬ 
gretting I hadn’t seen him since that night in Mont¬ 
martre, and about something funny Brett told me about 
him, and as all the time I was kneeling with my fore-, 
head on the wood in front of me, and was thinking of 




myself as praying I was a little ashamed, and regretted 
that I was such a rotten Catholic, but realized there was 
nothing I could do about it, at least for a while, and 
maybe never, but that anyway it was a grand religion, 
and I only wished I telt religious and maybe I would the 
next time; and then I was out in the hot sun on the steps 
of the cathedral, and the forefingers and the thumb of 
my right hand were still damp, and I felt them dry in 
the sun. The sunlight was hot and hard, and I crossed 
over beside some buildings, and walked back along side- 
streets to the hotel. 

At dinner that night we found that Robert Cohn had 
taken a bath, had had a shave and a haircut and a sham¬ 
poo, and something put on his hair afterward to make 
it stay down. He was nervous, and I did not try to help 
him any. The train was due in at nine o’clock from San 
Sebastian, and, if Brett and Mike were coming, they 
would be on it. At twenty minutes to nine we were not 
half through dinner. Robert Cohn got up from the 
table and said he would go to the station. I said I would 
go with him, just to devil him. Bill said he would be 
damned if he would leave his dinner. I said we would be 
right back. 

We walked to the station. I was enjoying Cohn’s ner¬ 
vousness. I hoped Brett would be on the train. At the 
station the train was late, and we sat on a baggage-truck 
and waited outside in the dark. I have never seen a 
man in civil life as nervous as Robert Cohn—nor as 
eager. I was enjoying it. It was lousy t o enjoy it. but 
‘ I felt lousy. Cohn had a wonderful quality of bringing 
o ut Th e worst, in anybody. 

After a while we heard the train-whistle way off below 
on the other side of the plateau, and then we saw the 
headlight coming up the hill. We went inside the sta- 

IIKJIVFP<;/TV r>c \/\r — r,-. T i a I 



tion and stood with a crowd of people just back of the 
gates, and the train came in and stopped, and every¬ 
body started coming out through the gates. 

They were not in the crowd. We waited till everybody 
had gone through and out of the station and gotten into 
buses, or taken cabs, or were walking with their friends 
or relatives through the dark into the town. 

“I knew they wouldn’t come/' Robert said. We were 
going back to the hotel. 

“I thought they might,” I said. 

Bill was eating fruit when we came in and finishing 
a bottle of wine. 

“Didn’t come, eh?” 


“Do you mind if I give you that hundred pesetas in 
the morning, Cohn?” Bill asked. “I haven’t changed 
any money here yet.” 

“Oh, forget about it,” Robert Cohn said. “Let’s bet 
on something else. Can you bet on bull-fights?” 

“You could,” Bill said, “but you don’t need to.” 

“It would be like betting on the war,” I said. “You' 
don’t need any economic interest.” 

“I’m very curious to see them,” Robert said. 

Montoya came up to our table. He had a telegram in 
his hand. “It’s for you.” He handed it to me. 

It read: “Stopped night San Sebastian.” 

“It’s from them,” I said. I put it in my pocket. Ordi¬ 
narily I should have handed it over. 

“They’ve stopped over in San Sebastian,” I said. 
“Send their regards to you.” 

im I do not know. 

v / . 

cbtrrse did not £ 

[forgivingly je alou s 



did hate him. I do not think I ever really hated him 
until he had that little spell of superiority at lunch— 
that and when he went through all that barbering. So 
I put the telegram in my pocket. The telegram came to 
me, anyway. 

“Well,” I said. “We ought to pull out on the noon 
bus for Burguete. They can follow us if they get in 
to-morrow night.” 

There were only two trains up from San Sebastian, 
an early morning train and the one we had just met. 

“That sounds like a good idea,” Cohn said. 

“The sooner we get on the stream the better.” 

“It’s all one to me when we start,” Bill said. “The 
sooner the better.” 

We sat in the Iruna for a while and had coffee and then 
took a little walk out to the bull-ring and across the field 
and under the trees at the edge of the cliff and looked 
down at the river in the dark, and I turned in early. 
Bill and Cohn stayed out in the cafe quite late, I be¬ 
lieve, because I was asleep when they came in. 

In the morning I bought three tickets for the bus to 
Burguete. It was scheduled to leave at two o’clock. 
There was nothing earlier. I was sitting over at the 
Iruna reading the papers when I saw Robert Cohn com¬ 
ing across the square. He came up to the table and sat 
down in one of the wicker chairs. 

“This is a comfortable cafe,” he said. “Did you have 
a good night, Jake?” 

“I slept like a log.” 

“I didn’t sleep very well. Bill and I were out late, 

“Where were you?” 

“Here. And after it shut we went over to that other 
tafe. The old man there speaks German and English.” 



“The Cafe Suizo.” 

“That’s it. He seems like a nice old fellow. I think 
it’s a better cafe than this one.” 

“It’s not so good in the daytime,” I said. “Too hot. 
By the way, I got the bus tickets.” 

“ I’m not going up to-dav. You and Bill go on ahead.” 

“I’ve got your ticket.” 

“Give it to me. I’ll get the money back.” 

“It’s five pesetas.” 

Robert Cohn took out a silver five-peseta piece and 
gave it to me. 

“I ought to stay,” he said. “ You see I’m afraid there’s 
some sort of misunderstanding.” 

“Why,” I said. “They may not come here for three 
or four days now if they start on parties at San Sebas¬ 

“That’s just it,” said Robert. “I’m afraid they ex¬ 
pected to meet me at San Sebastian, and that’s why they 
stopped over.” 

“What makes you think that?” 

“Well, I wrote suggesting it to Brett.” 

“Why in hell didn’t you stay there and meet them, 
then?” I started to say, but I stopped. I thought that 
idea would come to him by itself, but I do not believe 
it ever did. 

He was being confidential now and it was giving him 
pleasure to be able to talk with the understanding that 
I knew there was something between him and Brett. 

“Well, Bill and I will go up right after lunch,” I said. 

“I wish I could go. We’ve been looking forward to 
this fishing all winter.” He was being sentimental about 
it. “But I ought to stay. I really ought. As soon as 
they come I’ll bring them right up.” 

“Let’s find Bill.” 



“I want to go over to the barber-shop.” 

“See you at lunch.” 

I found Bill up in his room. He was shaving. 

“Oh, yes, he told me all about it last night,” Bill said. 
“He’s a great little confider. He said he had a date 
with Brett at San Sebastian.” 

“The lying bastard!” 

“Oh, no,” said Bill. “Don’t get sore. Don’t get sore 
at this stage of the trip. How did you ever happen to 
know this fellow, anyway?” 

“Don’t rub it in.” 

Bill looked around, half-shaved, and then went on 
talking into the mirror while he lathered his face. 

“Didn’t you send him with a letter to me in New York 
last winter? Thank God, I’m a travelling man. Haven’t 
you got some more Jewish friends you could bring 
along?” He rubbed his chin with his thumb, looked 
at it, and then started scraping again. 

“You’ve got some fine ones yourself.” 

.“Oh, yes. I’ve got some darbs. But not alongside of 
this Robert Cohn. The funny thing is he’s nice, too. I 
like him. But he’s just so awful.” 

“He can be damn nice.” 

“I know it. That’s the terrible part.” 

I laughed. 

“Yes. Go on and laugh,” said Bill. “You weren’t 
out with him last night until two o’clock.” 

“Was he very bad?” 

“Awful. What’s all this about him and Brett, any¬ 
way? Did she ever have anything to do with him?” 

He raised his chin up and pulled it from side to side. 

“Sure. She went down to San Sebastian with him.” 

“What a damn-fool thing to do. Why did she do 



“She wanted to get out of town and s he cag ^Lga any- 
where^alpne. She said she thought it would be good for ^ 

“What bloody-fool things people do. Why didn’t she 
go off with some of her own people? Or you?”—he 
slurred that over—“or me? Why not me?” He looked 
at his face carefully in the glass, put a big dab of lather 
on each cheek-bone. “It’s an honest face. It’s a face 
any woman would be safe with.” 

“She’d never seen it.” 

“She should have. All women should see it. It’s a 
face that ought to be thrown on every screen in the 
country. Every woman ought to be given a copy of 
this face as she leaves the altar. Mothers should tell 
their daughters about this face. My son”—he pointed 
the razor at me—“go west with this face and grow up 
with the country.” 

He ducked down to the bowl, rinsed his face with 
cold water, put on some alcohol, and then looked at 
himself carefully in the glass, pulling down his long 
upper lip. 

“My God!” he said, “isn’t it an awful face?” 

He looked in the glass. 

“And as for this Robert Cohn,” Bill said, “he makes 
me sick, and he can go to hell, and I’m damn glad he’s£> 
staying here so we won’t have him fishing with us.” 

“You’re damn right.” 

V“ We’re going trout-fishing. We’re going trout-fishing 
in the Irati River, and we’re going to get tight now at 
lunch on the wine of the country, and then take a swell ~T 
bus ride.”| 

“Come on. Let’s go over to the Iruna and start,” I 


It was baking hot in the square when we came out 
after lunch with our bags and the rod-case to go to Bur- 
guete. People were on top of the bus, and others were 
climbing up a ladder. Bill went up and Robert sat be¬ 
side Bill to save a place for me, and I went back in the 
hotel to get a couple of bottles of wine to take with us. 
When I came out the bus was crowded. Men and women 
were sitting on all the baggage and boxes on top, and 
the women all had their fans going in the sun. It cer¬ 
tainly was hot. Robert climbed down and I fitted into 
the place he had saved on the one wooden seat that ran 
across the top. 

Robert Cohn stood in the shade of the arcade waiting 
for us to start. A Basque with a big leather wine-bag in 
his lap lay across the top of the bus in front of our seat, 
leaning back against our legs. He offered the wine-skin 
to Bill and to me, and when I tipped it up to drink he 
imitated the sound of a klaxon motor-horn so well and so 
suddenly that I spilled some of the wine, and everybody 
laughed. He apologized and made me take another 
drink. He made the klaxon again a little later, and it 
fooled me the second time. He was very good at it. 
The Basques liked it. The man next to Bill was talk¬ 
ing to him in Spanish and Bill was not getting it, so he 
offered the man one of the bottles of wine. The man 
waved it away. He said it was too hot and he had 
dr unk too much at lunch. When Bill offered the bottle 
the second time he took a long drink, and then the bot¬ 
tle went all over that part of the bus. Every one took a 
drink very politely, and then they made us cork it up 




and put it away. They all wanted us to drink from their 
leather wine-bottles. They were peasants going up into 
the hills. 

Finally, after a couple more false klaxons, the bus 
started, and Robert Cohn waved good-by to us, and all 
the Basques waved good-by to him. As soon as we 
started out on the road outside of town it was cool. It 
felt nice riding high up and close under the trees. The 
bus went quite fast and made a good breeze, and as we 
went out along the road with the dust powdering the 
trees and down the hill, we had a fine view, back through 
the trees, of the town rising up from the bluff above the 
river. The Basque lying against my knees pointed out 
the view with the neck of the wine-bottle, and winked at 
us. He nodded his head. 

“Pretty nice, eh?” 

“These Basques are swell people,” Bill said. 

The Basque lying against my legs was tanned the 
color of saddle-leather. He wore a black smock like all 
the rest. There were wrinkles in his tanned neck. He 
turned around and offered his wine-bag to Bill. Bill 
handed him one of our bottles. The Basque wagged a 
forefinger at him and handed the bottle back, slapping 
in the cork with the palm of his hand. He shoved the 
wine-bag up. 

“Arriba! Arriba!” he said. “Lift it up.” 

Bill raised the wine-skin and let the stream of wine 
spurt out and into his mouth, his head tipped back. 
When he stopped drinking and tipped the leather bottle 
down a few drops ran down his chin. 

“No! No!” several Basques said. “Not like that.” 
One snatched the bottle away from the owner, who was 
himself about to give a demonstration. He was a young 
fellow and he held the wine-bottle at' full arms’ length 


and raised it high up, squeezing the leather bag with his 
hand so the stream of wine hissed into his mouth. He 
held the bag out there, the wine making a flat, hard 
trajectory into his mouth, and he kept on swallowing 
smoothly and regularly. 

“Hey!” the owner of the bottle shouted. “Whose 
wine is that?” 

The drinker waggled his little finger at him and smiled 
at us with his eyes. Then he bit the stream off sharp 
made a quick lift with the wine-bag and lowered it down 
to the owner. He winked at us. The owner shook the 
wine-skin sadly. 

We passed through a town and stopped in front of the 
posada, and the driver took on several packages. Then 
we started on again, and outside the town the road com¬ 
menced to mount. We were going through farming 
country with rocky hills that sloped down into the 
fields. The grain-fields went up the hillsides. Now as 
we went higher there was a wind blowing the grain. The 
road was white and dusty, and the dust rose under the 
wheels and hung in the air behind us. The road climbed 
up into the hills and left the rich grain-fields below. Now 
there were only patches of grain on the bare hillsides and 
on each side of the water-courses. We turned sharply out 
to the side of the road to give room to pass to a long 
string of six mules, following one after the other, haul¬ 
ing a high-hooded wagon loaded with freight. The wagon 
and the mules were covered with dust. Close behind 
was another string of mules and another wagon. This 
was loaded with lumber, and the arriero driving the mules 
leaned back and put on the thick wooden brakes as we 
passed. Up here the country was quite barren and the hill s 
Were rocky and hard-baked clay furrowed by the rain. 
We came around a curve into a town, and on both 



sides opened out a sudden green valley. A stream went 
through the centre of the town and fields of grapes 
touched the houses. 

The bus stopped in front of a posada and many of the 
passengers got down, and a lot of the baggage was un¬ 
strapped from the roof from under the big tarpaulins 
and lifted down. Bill and I got down and went into the 
posada. There was a low, dark room with saddles and 
harness, and hay-forks made of white wood, and clus¬ 
ters of canvas rope-soled shoes and hams and slabs of 
bacon and white garlics and long sausages hanging from 
the roof. It was cool and dusky, and we stood in front 
of a long wooden counter with two women behind it 
serving drinks. Behind them were shelves stacked with 
supplies and goods. 

We each had an aguardiente and paid forty centimes 
for the two drinks. I gave the woman fifty centimes to 
make a tip, and she gave me back the copper piece, think¬ 
ing I had misunderstood the price. 

Two of our Basques came in and insisted on buying a 
drink. So they bought a drink and then we bought a 
drink, and then they slapped us on the back and bought 
another drink. Then we bought, and then we all went 
out into the sunlight and the heat, and climbed back 
on top of the bus. There was plenty of room now for 
every one to sit on the seat, and the Basque who had 
been lying on the tin roof now sat between us. The 
woman who had been serving drinks came out wiping 
her hands on her apron and talked to somebody inside 
the bus. Then the driver came out swinging two flat 
leather mail-pouches and climbed up, and everybody 
waving we started off. 

The road left the green valley at once, and we were 
up in the hills again. Bill and the wine-bottle Basque 



were having a conversation. A man leaned over from 
the other side of the seat and asked in English: “You’re 
Americans ? ” 


“I been there,” he said. “Forty years ago.” 

He was an old man, as brown as the others, with the 
stubble cf a white beard. 

“How was it?” 

“What you say?” 

“How was America?” 

“Oh, I was in California. It was fine.” 

“Why did you leave?” 

“What you say?” 

“Why did you come back here?” 

“ Oh ! I come back to get married. I was going to go 
back but my wife she don’t like to travel. Where you 
from ? ” 

“Kansas City.” 

“I been there,” he said. “I been in Chicago, St. Louis, 
Kansas City, Denver, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City.” 

He named them carefully. 

"How long were you over?” 

“Fifteen years. Then I come back and got married.” 

“Have a drink?” 

“All right,” he said. “You can’t get this in America, 

“There’s plenty if you can pay for it.” 

“What you come over here for?” 

“We’re going to the fiesta at Pamplona.” 

“You like the bull-fights?” 

“Sure. Don’t you?” 

“Yes,” he said. “I guess I like them.” 

Then after a little: 

“Where you go now?” 



“Up to Burguete to fish.” 

“Well,” he said, “I hope you catch something.” 

He shook hands and turned around to the back seat 
again. The other Basques had been impressed. He sat 
back comfortably and smiled at me when I turned around 
to look at the country. But the effort of talking Ameri¬ 
can seemed to have tired him. He did not say anything 
after that. 

The bus climbed steadily up the road. The country 
was barren and rocks stuck up through the clay. There 
was no grass beside the road. Looking back we could 
see the country spread out below. Far back the fields 
were squares of green and brown on the hillsides. Mak¬ 
ing the horizon were the brown mountains. They were 
strangely shaped. As we climbed higher the horizon 
kept changing. As the bus ground slowly up the road 
we could see other mountains coming up in the south. 
Then the road came over the crest, flattened out, and 
went into a forest. It was a forest of cork oaks, and the 
sun came through the trees in patches, and there were 
cattle grazing back in. the trees. We went through the 
forest and the road came out and turned along a rise 
of land, and out ahead of us was a rolling green plain, 
with dark mountains beyond it. These were not like 
the brown, heat-baked mountains we had left behind. 
These were wooded and there were clouds coming down 
from them. The green plain stretched off. It was cut 
by fences and the white of the road showed through the 
trunks of a double line of trees that crossed the plain 
toward the north. As we came to the edge of the rise 
we saw the red roofs and white houses of Burguete ahead 
strung out on the plain, and away off on the shoulder 
of the first dark mountain was the gray metal-sheathed 
roof of the monastery of Roncevalles. 



“There’s Roncevaux,” I said. 


“Way off there where the mountain starts.” 

“It’s cold up here,” Bill said. 

“It’s high,” I said. “It must be twelve hundred 

“It’s awful cold,” Bill said. 

The bus levelled down onto the straight line of road 
jthat ran to Burguete. We passed a crossroads and 
crossed a bridge over a stream. The houses of Burguete 
were along both sides of the road. There were no side- 
streets. We passed the church and the school-yard, and 
the bus stopped. We got down and the driver handed 
down our bags and the rod-case. A carabineer in his 
cocked hat and yellow leather cross-straps came up. 

“What’s in there?” he pointed to the rod-case. 

I opened it and showed him. He asked to see our fish¬ 
ing permits and I got them out. He looked at the date 
and then waved us on. 

“Is that all right?” I asked. 

“Yes. Of course.” 

We went up the street, past the whitewashed stone 
houses, families sitting in their doorways watching us, 
to the inn. 

The fat woman who ran the inn came out from the 
kitchen and shook hands with us. She took off her spec¬ 
tacles, wiped them, and put them on again. It was cold 
in the inn and the wind was starting to blow outside. 
The woman sent a girl up-stairs with us to show the 
room. There were two beds, a washstand, a clothes- 
chest, and a big, framed steel-engraving of Nuestra 
Senora de Roncevalles. The wind was blowing against 
the shutters. The room was on the north side of the 
inn. We washed, put on sweaters, and came down-stairs 



into the dining-room. It had a stone floor, low ceiling, 
and was oak-panelled. The shutters were all up and 
it was so cold you could see your breath. 

“My God!” said Bill. “It can’t be this cold to-mor 
row. I’m not going to wade a stream in this weather.” 

There was an upright piano in the far corner of the 
room beyond the wooden tables and Bill went over and 
started to play. 

“I got to keep warm,” he said. 

I went out to find the woman and ask her how much 
the room and board was. She put her hands under her 
apron and looked away from me. 

“Twelve pesetas.” 

“Why, we only paid that in Pamplona.” 

She did not say anything, just took off her glasses 
and wiped them on her apron. 

“That’s too much,” I said. “We didn’t pay more 
than that at a big hotel.” 

“We’ve put in a bathroom.” 

“Haven’t you got anything cheaper?” 

“Not in the summer. Now is the big season.” 

We were the only people in the inn. Well, I thought, 
it’s only a few days. 

“Is the wine included?” 

“Oh, yes.” p 

“Well,” I said. “It’s all right.” 

I went back to Bill. He blew his breath at me to 
show how cold it was, and went on playing. I sat at 
one of the tables and looked at the pictures on the wall. 
There was one panel of rabbits, dead, one of pheasants, 
also dead, and one panel of dead ducks. The panels 
were all dark and smoky-looking. There was a cup- 
board full of liqueur bottles. I looked at them all. Bill 
was still playing. “How about a hot rum punch?” 


he said. “This isn’t going to keep me warm perma¬ 

I went out and told the woman what a rum punch 
was and how to make it. In a few minutes a girl brought 
a stone pitcher, steaming, into the room. Bill came over 
from the piano and we drank the hot punch and listened 
to the wind. v 

“There isn’t too much rum in that.” 

I went over to the cupboard and brought the rum 
bottle and poured a half-tumblerful into the pitcher. 

“Direct action,” said Bill. “It beats legislation.” 

The girl came in and laid the table for supper. 

“It blows like hell up here,” Bill said. 

The girl brought in a big bowl of hot vegetable soup 
and the wine. We had fried trout afterward and some 
sort of a stew and a big bowl full of wild strawberries. 
We did not lose money on the wine, and the girl was shy 
but nice about bringing it. The old woman looked in 
once and counted the empty bottles. 

After supper we went up-stairs and smoked and read 
in bed to keep warm. Once in the night I woke and 
heard the wind blowing./it felt good to be warm and 


When I woke in the morning I went to the. window 
and looked out. It had cleared and there were no clouds 
on the mountains. Outside under the window were 
some carts and an old diligence, the wood of the roof 
cracked and split by the weather. It must have been 
left from the days before the motor-buses. A goat 
hopped up on one of the carts and then to the roof of the 
diligence. He jerked his head at the other goats below 
and when I waved at him he bounded down. 

Bill was still sleeping, so I dressed, put on my shoes 
outside in the hall, and went down-stairs. No one was 
stirring down-stairs, so I unbolted the door and went 
out. It was cool outside in the early morning and the 
sun had not yet dried the dew that had come when the 
wind died down. I hunted around in the shed behind 
the inn and found a sort of mattock, and went down 
toward the stream to try and dig some worms for bait. 
The strean^pwas clear and shallow but it did not look 
trouty. On th^grassy bank where it was damp I drove 
the mattock iniVthe earth and loosened a chunk of sod. 
There were worms underneath. |J^ey slid out o£ sight 
as I lifted the sod and I dug carefully and got a good 
many. Digging at the edge of the damp ground I filled 
two empty tobacco-tins with worms and sifted, dirt onto 
them. The goats watched me dig. 

When 1 went back into the inn the woman was down 
in the kitchen, and I asked her to get coffee for us, and ^ 
that we wanted a lunch. Bill was awake and sitting on 
the edge of the bed. 



“I saw you out of the window,” he said. “Didn’t 
want to interrupt you. What were you doing? Burying 
your money ? ” 

“You laay bum!” 

\ “Been working for the common good? Splendid. I 
want you to do that every morning.” 

“Come on,” I said. “Get up.” 

“What? Get up? I never get up.” 

He climbed into bed and pulled the sheet up to his 

“Try and argue me into getting up.” 

I went on looking for the tackle and putting it all 
together in the tackle-bag. 

“Aren’t you interested?” Bill asked. 

“I’m going down and eat.” 

“Eat? Why didn’t you say eat? I thought you just 
wanted me to get up for fun. Eat? Fine. Now you’re 
reasonable. You go out and dig some more worms and 
I’ll be right down.” 

“Oh, go to hell!” 

“Work for the good of all.” Bill stepped into his un¬ 
derclothes. “Show irony and pity.” 

I started out of the room with the tackle-bag, the 
nets, and the rod-case. 

“Hey! come back!** . 

I put my head in the door. 

'“Aren’t you going to show a little irony and pity?” 

I thumbed my nose. 

“That’s not irony.” 

As I went down-stairs I heard Bill singing, “Irony 
and Pity. When you’re feeling . . . Oh, Give them 
Irony and Give them Pity. Oh, give them Irony. When 
they’re feeling . . . Just a little irony. Just a little 
pity . . .” He kept on singing until he came down-stairs. 



The tune was: “The Bells are Ringing for Me and my 
Gal.” I was reading a week-old Spanish paper. 

“What’s all this irony and pity?” 

“What? Don’t you know about Irony and Pity?” 

“No. Who got it up?” 

“Everybody. They’re mad about it in New York. 

It’s just like the Fratellinis used to be.” 

The girl came in with the coffee and buttered toast. 

Or, rather it was bread toasted and buttered. 

“Ask her if she’s got any jam,” Bill said. “Be ironical 
with her.” 

“Have you got any jam?” 

“That’s not ironical. I wish I could talk Spanish.” 

The coffee was good and we drank it out of big bowls. 
The girl brought in a glass dish of raspberry jam. 

“Thank you.” 

“Hey! that’s not the way,” Bill said. “Say something 
ironical. Make some crack about Primo de Rivera.” 

“I could ask her what kind of a jam they think they’ve 
gotten into in the Riff.” 

“Poor,” said Bill. “Very poor. You can’t do it. -rj 
That’s all. You don’t understand irony. You have no 
pity. Say something pitiful.” 

“Robert Cohn.” 

“Not so bad. That’s better. Now why is Cohn piti¬ 
ful? Be ironic.” 

He took a big gulp of coffee. 

“Aw, hell!” I said. “It’s too early in the morning.” 
“There you go. And you claim you want to be a 
writer, too. You’re only a newspaper man. An expa¬ 
triated newspaper man. You ought to be ironical the 
minute you get out of bed. You ought to wake up 
with your mouth full of pity.” 

“ Go on,” I said. “ Who did you get this stuff from ? ” 


“Everybody. Don’t you read? Don’t you ever see 
anybody? You know what you are? You’re an expa¬ 
triate. Why don’t you live in New York? Then you’d 
know these things. What do you want me to do ? Come 
over here and tell you every year?” 

“Take some more coffee,” I said. 

“ Good. Coffee is good for you. It’s the caffeine in it. 
Caffeine, we are here. Caffeine puts a man on her horse 
and a woman in his grave. You know what’s the trouble 
with you? You’re an expatriate. One of the worst type. 
Haven’t you heard that? Nobody that ever left their 
own country ever wrote anything worth printing. Not 
even in the newspapers.” 

He drank the coffee. 

“You’re an expatriate. You’ve lost touch with the 
soil. You get precious. Fake European standards have 
ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You become 
obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not 
working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang around 

“It sounds like a swell life,” I said. “When do I 
work ? ” 

“You don’t work. One group claims women support 
you. Another group claims you’re impotent.” 

->No,” I said. (j‘I just had an accidents’ 

“Never mention that,” Bill said. “That’s the sort of 
thing that can’t be spoken of. That’s what you ought to 
work up into a mystery. Like Henry’s bicycle.” 

U He had been going splendidly, but he stopped. I was 
afraid he thought he had hurt me with that crack about 
being impotent. I wanted to start him again. 

“It wasn’t a bicycle,” I said. “He was riding horse¬ 

“I heard it was a tricycle.” 


“Well,” I said. “A plane is sort of like a tricyde. 
The joystick works the same way.” 

“But you don’t pedal it.” 

“No,” I said, “I guess you don’t pedal it.” 

“Let’s lay oil that,” Bill said. 

“All right. I was just standing up for the tricyde.” 

“I think he’s a good writer, too,” Bill said “And 
you’re a hell of a good guy- Anybody ever tell you you 
were a good guy?” 

“I’m not a good guy.” 

“Listen. You’re a hell of a good guy, and I’m fonder 
of you than anybody on earth. I couldn’t tell you that 
in New York. It’d mean I was a faggot. That was what 
the Civil War was about. Abraham Lincoln was a fag¬ 
got. He was in love with General Grant. So was Jef¬ 
ferson Davis. Lincoln just freed the slaves on a bet. 
The Dred Scott case was framed by the Anti-Saloon 
League. Sex explains it all. The Colonel’s Lady and 
Judy O’Grady are Lesbians under their skin.” 

He stopped. 

“Want to hear some more?” 

“Shoot,” I said. 

“I don’t know any more. Tell you some more at 

“Old Bill,” I said. 

“You bum!” 

We packed the lunch and two bottles of wine in the 
rucksack, and Bill put it on. I carried the rod-case and 
the landing-nets slung over my back. We started up 
the road and then went across a meadow and found a 
path that crossed the fields and went toward the woods 
on the slope of the first hill. We walked across the fields 
on the sandy path. The fields were rolling and grassy 
and the grass was short from the sheep grazing. The 


cattle were up in the hills. We heard their bells in the 

The path crossed a stream on a foot-log. The log was 
surfaced off, and there was a sapling bent across for a 
rail. In the flat pool beside the stream tadpoles spotted 
the sand. We went up a steep bank and across the roll¬ 
ing fields. Looking back we saw Burguete, white houses 
and red roofs, and the white road with a truck going 
along it and the dust rising. 

Beyond the fields we crossed another faster-flowing 
6tream. A sandy road led down to the ford and beyond 
into the woods. The path crossed the stream on another 
foot-log below the ford, and joined the road, and we 
went into the woods. 

It was a beech wood and the trees were very old. 
Their roots bulked above the ground and the branches 
were twisted. We walked on the road between the thick 
trunks of the old beeches and the sunlight came through 
the leaves in light patches on the grass. The trees were 
big, and the foliage was thick but it was not gloomy. 
There was no undergrowth, only the smooth grass, very 
green and fresh, and the big gray trees well spaced as 
though it were a park. 

“This is country,” Bill said. 

The road went up a hill and we got into thick woods, 
and the road kept on climbing. Sometimes it dipped 
down but rose again steeply. All the time we heard the 
cattle in the woods. Finally, the road came out on the 
top of the hills. We were on the top of the height of 
land that was the highest part of the range of wooded 
hills we had seen from Burguete. There were wild straw¬ 
berries growing on the sunny side of the ridge in a little 
clearing in the trees. 

Ahead the road came out of the forest and went along 



the shoulder of the ridge of hills. The hills ahead were 
not wooded, and there were great fields of yellow gorse. 
Way off we saw the steep bluffs, dark with trees and 
jutting with gray stone, that marked the course of the 
Irati River. 

“We have to follow this road along the ridge, cross 
these hills, go through the woods on the far hills, and 
come down to the Irati valley,” I pointed out to Bill. 

“That’s a hell of a hike.” 

It s too far to go and fish and come back the same 
day, comfortably.” 

“Comfortably. That’s a nice word. We’ll have to go 
like hell to get there and back and have any fishing at all.” 

It was a long walk and the country was very fine, but 
we were tired when we came down the steep road that 
led out of the wooded hills into the valley of the Rio de 
la Fabrica. 

The road came out from the shadow of the woods 
into the hot sun. Ahead was a river-valley. Beyond the 
river was a steep hill. There was a field of buckwheat 
on the hill. We saw a white house under some trees on 
the hillside. It was very hot and we stopped under 
some trees beside a dam that crossed the river. 

Bill put the pack against one of the trees and we 
jointed up the rods, put on the reels, tied on leaders, and 
got ready to fish. 

“You’re sure this thing has trout in it?” Bill asked. 

“It’s full of them.” 

“I’m going to fish a fly. You got any McGintys?”. 

“There’s some in there.” 

“You going to fish bait?” 

“Yeah. I’m going to fish the dam here.” 

“Well, I’ll take the fly-book, then.” He tied on a 
' y. “ Where’d I better go? Up or down?” 



“Down is the best. They’re plenty up above, too.” 

Bill went down the bank. 

“Take a worm can.” 

“No, I don’t want one. If they won’t take a fly I’ll 
|ust flick it around.” 

Bill was down below watching the stream. 

“Say,” he called up against the noise of the dam. 
“How about putting the wine in that spring up the 

“All right,” 1 shouted. Bill waved his hand and 
started down the stream. I found the two wine-bottles 
in the pack, and carried them up the road to where the 
water of a spring flowed out of an iron pipe. There was 
a board over the spring and I lifted it and, knocking the 
corks hrmly into the bottles, lowered them down into 
the water. It was so cold my hand and wrist felt numbed. 

I put back the slab of wood, and hoped nobody would 
find the wine. 

I got my rod that was leaning against the tree, took 
the bait-can and landing-net, and walked out onto the 
dam. It was built to provide a head of water for driving 
logs. The gate was up, and I sat on one of the squared 
timbers and watched the smooth apron of water before 
the river tumbled into the falls. In the white vrater at 
the foot of the dam it was deep. As I baited up, a trout 
shot up out of the white water into the falls and was 
carried down. Before I could finish baiting, another 
trout jumped at the falls, making the same lonely arc 
and disappearing into the water that was thundering 
down. I put on a good-sized sinker and dropped into 
the white water close to the edge of the timbers of the 

I did not feel the first trout strike. When I started to 
pull up I felt that I had one and brought him, fighting * 



and bending the rod almost double, out of the boiling 
water at the foot of the falls, and swung him up and onto 
the dam. He was a good trout, and I banged his head 
against the timber so that he quivered out straight, and ^ 
then slipped him into my bag. 

While I had him on, several trout had jumped at. the 
falls. As soon as I baited up and dropped in again I 
hooked another and brought him in the same way. In 
a little while I had six. They were all about the same 
size. I laid them out, side by side, all their heads point¬ 
ing the same way, and looked at them. They were beau¬ 
tifully colored and firm and hard from the cold water. 

It was a hot day, so I slit them all and shucked out the 
insides, gills and all, and tossed them over across the 
river. I took the trout ashore, washed them in the cold, 
smoothly heavy water above the dam. and then picked 
some ferns and packed them all in the bag, three * r out 
on a layer of ferns, then another layer of ferns, then 
three more trout, and then covered them with ferns. 
They looked nice in the ferns, and now the bag was 
bulky, and I put it in the shade of the tree. 

It was very hot on the dam, so I put my worm-can 
in the shade with the bag, and got a book out of the 
pack and settled down under the tree to read until 
Bill should come up for lunch. 

It was a little past noon and there was not much shade, 
but I sat against the trunk of two of the trees that \ 
grew together, and read. I he book was something by 
A.. E. W. Mason,; and I was reading a wonderful story 
aoout a man who had been frozen in the Aips and then 
fallen into a glacier and disappeared, and his bride was 
going to wait twenty-four years exactly for his body to 
come out on the moraine, while her true love waited 
too, and they were still waiting when Bill came up. 



“Get any?” he asked. He had his rod and his bag 
and his net all in one hand, and he was sweating. I 
hadn’t heard him come up, because of the noise from the 

“Six. What did you get?” 

Bill sat down, opened up his bag, laid a big trout on 
the grass. He took out three more, each one a little big¬ 
ger than the last, and laid them side by side in the shade 
from the tree. His face was sweaty and happy. 

“How are yours?” 

- “Smaller.” 

“Let’s see them.” 

“They’re packed.” 

“How big are they really?” 

“They’re all about the size of your smallest.” 

“You’re rot holding out on me?” 

“I wish 1 were.” 

“Get them all on worms?” 


“You lazy bum!” 

Bill put the trout in the bag and started for the river, 
swinging the open bag. He was wet from the waist 
down and I knew he must have been wading the stream. 

I walked up the road and got out the two bottles of 
wine. They were cold. Moisture beaded on the bottles 
as I walked back to the trees. I spread the lunch on a 
newspaper, and uncorked one of the bottles and leaned 
the other against a tree. Bill came up drying his hands, 
his bag plump with ferns. 

“Let’s see that bottle,” he said. He pulled the cork 
and tipped up the bottle and drank. “Whew! That 
makes my eyes ache.” 

“Let’s try it.” 

The wine was icy cold and tasted faintly rusty. 



“That’s not such filthy wine,” Bill said. 

“The cold helps it,” I said. 

We unwrapped the little parcels of lunch. 


“There’s hard-boiled eggs.” 

“Find any salt?” 

“First the egg,” said Bill. “Then the chicken. Even 
Bryan could see that.” 

“He’s dead. I read it in the paper yesterday.” 

“No. Not really?” 

“Yes. Bryan’s dead.” 

Bill laid down the egg he was peeling. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, and unwrapped a drumstick 
from a piece of newspaper. “I reverse the order. For 
Bryan’s sake. As a tribute to the Great Commoner. 
First the chicken; then the egg.” 

“Wondenwhat day God created the chicken?” 

“Oh,” said Bill, sucking the drumstick, “how should 
we know? We should not question. Our stay on earth 
is not for long. Let us rejoice and believe and give 

“Eat an egg.” 

Bill gestured with the drumstick in one hand and the 
bottle of wine in the other. 

“Let us rejoice in our blessings. Let us utilize the<r 
fowls of the air. Let us utilize the product of the vine.«£ 
Will you utilize a little, brother?” 

“After you, brother.” 

Bill took a long drink. 

“Utilize a little, brother,” he handed me the bottle. 
“Let us not doubt, brother. Let us not pry into the 
holy mysteries of the hen-coop with simian fingers. Let 
us accept on faith and simply say—I want you to join 
with me in saying— What shall we say, brother?” He 



pointed the drumstick at me and went on. “Let me tell 
you. We will say, and I for one am proud to say—and I 
want you to say with me, on your knees, brother. Let 
| no man be ashamed to kneel here in the great out-of- 
' doors. Remember the woods were God’s first temples. 
Let us kneel and say: ‘Don’t eat that Lady—that’s 

“Here,” I said. Utilize a little of this.” 

We uncorked the other bottle. 

“What’s the matter?” I said. “Didn’t you like 

“I loved Bryan,” said Bill. “We were like brothers.” 

“Where did you know him?” 

“He and Mencken and I all went to Holy Cross to¬ 

“And Frankie Fritsch.” 

“It’s a lie. Frankie Fritsch went to Fordham.” 

“Well,” I said, “I went to Loyola with Bishop Man¬ 

“It’s a lie,” Bill said. “I went to Loyola with Bishop 
Manning myself.” 

“You’re cock-eyed,” I said. 

“On wine?” 

“Why not?” 

“It’s the humidity,” Bill said. “They ought to take 
this damn humidity away.” 

“Have another shot.” 

“Is this all we’ve got?” 

“Only the two bottles.” 

“Do you know what you are?” Bill looked at the 
bottle affectionately. 

“No,” I said. 

“You’re in the pay of the Anti-Saloon League.” 

“I went to Notre Dame with Wayne B. Wheeler.” 


“ It’s a lie,” said Bill. “ I went to Austin Business Col¬ 
lege with Wayne B. Wheeler. He was class president.” 
“Well,” I said, “the saloon must go.” 

“You’re right there, old classmate,” Bill said. “The 
saloon must go, and I will take it with me.” 

“You’re cock-eyed.^ 

“On wine?” 

“On wine.” 

“Well, maybe I am.” 

“Want to take a nap?” 

“All right.” 

We lay with our heads in the shade and looked up 
into the trees. 

“You asleep?” 

“No,” Bill said. “I was thinking.” 

I shut my eyes. It felt good lying on the ground. 
“Say,” Bill said, “what about this Brett business?” 
“What about it?” 

“Were you ever in love with her?” 


“For how long?” 

“Off and on for a hell of a long time.” 

“Oh, hell!” Bill said. “I’m sorry, fella.” 

“It’s all right,” I said. “I don’t give a damn any 


“Really. Only I’d a hell of a lot rather not talk about 

“You aren’t sore I asked you?” 

“Why the hell should I be?” 

“I’m going to sleep,” Bill said. He put a newspaper 
over his face. 

“Listen, Jake,” he said, “are you really a Catholic?” 



“What does that mean?" 

“I don’t know.” 

“All right, I’ll go to sleep now,” he said. “Don’t keep 
me awake by talking so much.” 

I went to sleep, too. When I woke up Bill was pack¬ 
ing the rucksack. It was late in the afternoon and the 
Shadow from the trees was long and went out over the 
dam. I was stiff from sleeping on the ground. 

“What did you do? Wake up?” Bill asked. “Why 
didn’t you spend the night?” I stretched and rubbed 
my eyes. 

^ “I had a lovely dream,” Bill said. “I don’t remember 
vtfiat it was about, but it was a lovely dream.” 

“I don’t think I dreamt.” 

“You ought to dream,” Bill said. “All our biggest 
business men have been dreamers. Look at Ford. Look 
at President Coolidge. Look at Rockefeller. Look at 
Jo Davidson.” 

I disjointed my rod and Bill’s and packed them in the 
rod-case. I put the reels in the tackle-bag. Bill had 
packed the rucksack and we put one of the trout-bags 
in. I carried the other. 

“Well,” said Bill, “have we got everything?” 

“The worms.” 

“Your worms. Put them in there.” 

He had the pack on his back and I put the worm- rang 
in one of the outside flap pockets. 

“You got everything now?” 

I looked around on the grass at the foot of the elm- 


We started up the road into the woods. It was a long 
walk home to Burguete, and it was dark when we came 
town across the fields to the road, and along the road 


between the houses of the town, their windows lighted, 
to the inn. 

We stayed five days at Burguete and had good fish¬ 
ing. The nights were cold and the days were hot, and 
there was always a breeze even in the heat of the day. 
It was hot enough so that it felt good to wade in a cold 
stream, and the sun dried you when you came out and, 
sat on the bank. We found a stream with a pool deep 
enough to swim in. In the evenings we played three- 
handed bridge with an Englishman named Harris, who 
had walked over from Saint Jean Pied de Port and wap 
stopping at the inn for the fishing. He was very pleasant 
and went with us twice to the Irati River. There was no 
word from Robert Cohn nor from Brett and Mike. 


One morning I went” 3 owiTto breakfast and the Eng¬ 
lishman, Harris, was already at the table. He was read¬ 
ing the paper through spectacles. He looked up and 

“ Good morning,” he said: “Letter for you. I stopped 
at the post and they gave it me with mine.” 

The letter was at my place at the table, leaning against 
a coffee-cup. Harris was reading the paper again. I 
opened the letter. It had been forwarded from Pam¬ 
plona. It was dated San Sebastian, Sunday: 

Dear Jake, 

We got here Friday, Brett passed out on the train, so 
brought her here for 3 days rest with old friends of ours. 
We go to Montoya Hotel Pamplona Tuesday, arriving 
at I don’t know what hour. Will you send a note by 
the bus to tell us what to do to rejoin you all on Wednes¬ 
day. All our love and sorry to be late, but Brett was 
really done in and will be quite all right by Tues. and 
is practically so now. I know her so well and try to 
look after her but it’s not so easy. Love to all the chaps, 


“What day of the week is it?” I asked Harris. 
^“Wednesday, I think. Yes, quite. Wednesday. 
Wonderful how one loses track of the days up here in 
the mountains.” 

“Yes. We’ve been here nearly a week.” 

“I hope you’re not thinking of leaving?” 

“Yes. We’ll go in on the afternoon bus, I’m afraid.” 



“What a rotten business. I had hoped we’d all have 
another go at the Irati together.” 

“We have to go into Pamplona. We’re meeting people 

“What rotten luck for me. We’ve had a jolly time 
here at Burguete.” 

“Come on in to Pamplona. We can play some bridge 
there, and there’s going to be a damned fine fiesta.” 

“ I’d like to. Awfully nice of you to ask me. I’d best 
stop on here, though. I’ve not much more time to fish.” 

“You want those big ones in the Irati.” 

“I say, I do, you know. They’re enormous trout 

“I’d like to try them once more.” 

“Do. Stop over another day. Be a good chap.” 

“We really have to get into town,” I said. 

“Wdiat a pity.” 

After breakfast Bill and I were sitting warming in the 
sun on a bench out in front of the inn and talking it 
over. I saw a girl coming up the road from the centre 
of the town. She stopped in front of us and took a tele¬ 
gram out of the leather wallet that hung against her 

“Por ustedcs?” 

I looked at it. The address was: “Barites, Burguete.” 

“Yes. It’s for us.” 

She brought out a book for me to sign, and I gave her 
a couple of coppers. The telegram was in Spanish: 
“Vengo Jueves Cohn.” 

I handed it to Bill. 

“What does the word Cohn mean?” he asked. 

“What a lousy telegram!” I said. “He could send 
ten words for the same price. ‘I come Thursday’. That 
gives you a lot of dope, doesn’t it?” 


“It gives you all the dope that’s of interest to Cohn." 

“We’re going in, anyway,’’ I said. “There’s no use 
trying to move Brett and Mike out here and back before 
the fiesta. Should we answer it?" 

“We might as well," said Bill. “There’s no need for 
Wfi to be snooty.” 

We walked up to the post-office and asked for a tele- 
■‘igraph blank. 

j “What will we say?” Bill asked. 

“‘Arriving to-night.’ That’s enough.” 

We paid for the message and walked back to the inn , 
Harris was there and the three of us walked up to Ronce- 
Y&lles. We went through the monastery. 

“It’s a remarkable place,” Harris said, when we came 
out. “But you know I’m not much on those sort of 

“Me either,” Bill said. 

“It’s a remarkable place, though,” Harris said. “I 
wouldn’t not have seen it. I’d been intending coming 
up each day.” 

“It isn’t the same as fishing, though, is it?” Bill asked. 
He liked Harris. 

“I say not.” 

We were standing in front of the old chapel of the 

“ Isn’t that a pub across the way ? ” Harris asked. “ Or 
do my eyes deceive me?” 

“It has the look of a pub,” Bill said. 

“It looks to me like a pub,” I said. 

“I say,” said Harris, “let’s utilize it.” He had taken 
UP utilizing from Bill. 

We had a bottle of wine apiece. Harris would not let 
us pay. He talked Spanish quite well, and the inn¬ 
keeper would not take our money. 



"I say. You don’t know what it’s meant to me to 
have you chaps up here. ,, 

“We’ve had a grand time, Harris.” 

Harris was a little tight. 

“I say. Really you don’t know how much it means. 
I’ve not had much fun since the war.” 

“We’ll fish together again, some time. Don’t you for¬ 
get it, Harris.” 

“We must. We have had such a jolly good time.” 

“How about another bottle around? ” 

“Jolly good idea,” said Harris. 

“This is mine,” said Bill. “Or we don’t drink it.” 

“I wish you’d let me pay for it. It does give me 
pleasure, you know.” 

“This is going to give me pleasure,” Bill said. 

The innkeeper brought in the fourth bottle. We had 
kept the same glasses. Harris lifted his glass. 

“I say. You know this does utilize well.” 

Bill slapped him on the back. 

“Good old Harris.” 

“I say. You know my name isn’t really Harris. It’s 
Wilson-Harris. All one name. With a hyphen, you 

“Good old Wilson-Harris,” Bill said. “We call you 
Harris because we’re so fond of you.” 

“I say, Barnes. You don’t know what this all means 
to me.” 

“Come on and utilize another glass,” I said. (/■ 

“Barnes. Really, Barnes, you can’t know. That’s all.” 

“Drink up, Harris.” 

We walked back down the road from Roncevalles with 
Harris between us. We had lunch at the inn and Harris 
went with us to the bus. He gave us his card, with his 
address in London and his club and his business address, 



and as we got on the bus he handed us each an envelope. 
I opened mine and there were a dozen flies in it. Harris 
had tied them himself. He tied all his own flies. 

“I say, Harris—” I began. 

“No, no!” he said. He was climbing down from the 
bus. “They’re not first-rate fh’es at all. I only thought 
if you fished them some time it might remind you of what 
a good time we had.” 

The bus started. Harris stood in front of the post- 
office. He waved. As we started along the road he 
turned and walked back toward the inn. 

“Say, wasn’t that Harris nice?” Bill said. 

“I think he really did have a good time.” 

“Harris? You bet he did.” 

“I wish he’d come into Pamplona.” 

“He wanted to fish.” 

“Yes. You couldn’t tell how English would mix with 
each other, anyway.” 

“I suppose not.” 

We got into Pamplona late in the afternoon and the 
bus stopped in front of the Hotel Montoya. Out in the 
plaza they were stringing elcctric-light wires to light 
the plaza for the fiesta. A few kids came up when the 
bus stopped, and a custom officer for the town made all 
the people getting down from the bus open their bundles 
on the sidewalk. V/e went into the hotel and on the 
stairs I met Montoya. Pie shook hands with us, smiling 
in his embarrassed way. 

“Your friends are here,” he said. 

“Mr. Campbell?” 

“Yes. Mr. Cohn and Mr. Campbell and Lady Ash¬ 

He smiled as though there were something I would 
hear about. 



“When did they get in?” 

“Yesterday. I’ve saved you the rooms you had.” 

“That’s fine. Did you give Mr. Campbell the room 
on the plaza?” 

“Yes. All the rooms we looked at.” 

“Where are our friends now?” 

“I think they went to the pelota.” 

“And how about the bulls?” 

Montoya smiled. “To-night,” he said. “To-night at 
seven o’clock they bring in the Villar bulls, and to-mor¬ 
row come the Miuras. Do you all go down?” 

“Oh, yes. They’ve never seen a desencajonada.” 

Montoya put his hand on my shoulder. 

“I’ll see you there.” 

He smiled again. He always smiled as though bull¬ 
fighting were a very special secret between the two of 
us; a rather shocking but really very deep secret that 
we knew about. He always smiled as though there were 
something lewd about the secret to outsiders, but that 
it was something that we understood. It would not do 
to expose it to people who would not understand. 

“Your friend, is he aficionado, too?” Montoya smiled 
at Bill. 

“Yes. He came all the way from New York to see the 
San Fermines.” 

“Yes?” Montoya politely disbelieved. “But he’s 
not aficionado like you.” 

He put his hand on my shoulder again embarrassedly. 

“Yes,” I said. “He’s a real aficionado.” 

“But he’s not aficionado like you are.” 

Aficion means passion. An aficionado is o ne who is 
passionate about^the bul lfights. All the good bull¬ 
fighters stayed alMbnloya^sliotel; that is, those with 
aficion stayed there. The commercial bull-fighters stayed 

>, xz6 


once, perhaps, and then did not come back. The good 
ones came each year. In Montoya's room were their 
photographs. The photographs were dedicated to Jua- 
nito Montoya or to his sister. The photographs of 
bull-fighters Montoya had really believed in were framed. 
Photographs of bull-fighters who had been without 
aficion Montoya kept in a drawer of his desk. They 
often had the most flattering inscriptions. But they did 
not mean anything. One day Montoya took them all 
out and dropped them in the waste-basket. He did not 
want them around. 

We often talked about bulls and bull-fighters. I had 
stopped at the Montoya for several years. We never 
talked for very long at a time. It wa^ii^ly thepleasure 
\f o f discovering what we each felt . Men would come in 
from distant towns and before they left Pamplona stop 
and talk for a few minutes with Montoya about bulls. 
These men were aficionados. Those who were aficiona¬ 
dos could always get rooms even when the hotel was 
full. Montoya introduced me to some of them. They 
were always very polite at first, and it amused them very 
much that I should be an American. /TSomehow it was 
S^taken for granted that an American could not have afi¬ 
cion. I He might simulate it or confuse it with excitement, 
i but he could not really have it/When they saw that I 
had aficion, and there was no password, no set questions 
that could bring it out, rather it was a sort of oral spiri- 
* tual examination/with the questions always a little on 
the defensive and never apparent, there was this same 
embarrassed putting the hand on the shoulder, or a 
“Buen hombre. ,, But nearly always there was the actual 
touching./it seemed as though they wanted to touch 
you to make it certain/ 

Montoya could forgive anything of a bull-fighter v 



had afidon. He could forgive attacks of nerves, panic, 
bad unexplainable actions, all sorts of lapses. For one 
who had aficion he could forgive anything. At once he<~ 
forgave me all my friends. Without his ever saying any¬ 
thing they were simply a little something shameful be¬ 
tween us, like the spilling open of the horses in bull¬ 

Bill had gone up-stairs as we came in, and I found him 
washing and changing in his room. 

“Well,” he said, “talk a lot of Spanish?” 

“He was telling me about the bulls coming in to¬ 

“Let’s find the gang and go down.” 

“All right. They’ll probably be at the cafe.” 

“Have you got tickets?” 

“Yes. I got them for all the unloadings.” 

“What’s it like?” He was pulling his cheek before 
the glass, looking to see if there were unshaved patches 
under the line of the jaw. 

f “It’s pretty good,” I said. “They let the bulls out of 
V the cages one at a time, and they have steers in the 
corral to receive them and keep them from fighting, and 
the bulls tear in at the steers and the steers run around 
like old maids trying to quiet them down.” 

“Do they ever gore the steers?” 

“Sure. Sometimes they go right after them and kill 
them ” 

“Can’t the steers do anything?” 

“No. They’re trying to make friends.” 

“What do they have them in for?” 

“To quiet clown the bulls and keep them from break¬ 
ing their horns against the stone walls, or goring each 

“Must be f >well being a steer/’ ^_ 


We went down the stairs and out of the door and 
walked across the square toward the cafe Iruiia. There 
were two lonely looking ticket-houses standing in the 
square. Their windows, marked sol, sol y sombra, and 
sombra, were shut. They would not open until the day 
before the fiesta. 

Across the square the white wicker tables and chairs 
of the/Irunip extended out beyond the Arcade to the 
edge or-th^!street. I looked for Brett and Mike at the 
tables. There they were. Brett and Mike and Robert 
Cohn. Brett was wearing a Basque beret. So was Mike. 
Robert Cohn was bare-headed and wearing his spectacles. 
Brett saw us coming and waved. Her eyes crinkled up 
as we came up to the table. 

“Hello, you chaps!” she called. 

Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an in¬ 
tensity of feeling into shaking hands. Robert Cohn 
shook hands because we were back. 

“Where the hell have you been?” I asked. 

“I brought them up here,” Cohn said. 

What rot, Brett said. “We’d have gotten here 
earlier if you hadn’t come.” 

“You’d never have gotten here.” 

“What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill.” 

“Did you get good fishing?” Mike asked. “We 
wanted to join you.” 

“It wasn’t bad. We missed you.” 

“I wanted to come,” Cohn said, “but I thought f 
ought to bring them.” 

~"^‘You bring us. What rot.” 

“Was it really good?” Mike asked. “Did you fab; 
many ? ” 

“Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an 
Englishman up there.” 


“Named Harris,” Bill said. “Ever know him, Mike? 
He was in the war, too.” 

“Fortunate fellow,” Mike said. “What times we had. 
How I wish those dear days were back.” 

“Don’t be an ass.” 

“Were you in the war, Mike?” Cohn asked. 

“Was I not.” 

“He was a very distinguished soldier,” Brett said. 
“Tell them about the time your horse bolted down 

“I’ll not. I’ve told that four times.” 

“You never told me,” Robert Cohn said. 

“I’ll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me.” 

“Tell them about your medals.” 

“I’ll not. That story reflects great discredit on me.” 

“What story’s that?” 

“Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that re¬ 
flect discredit on me.” 

“Goon. Tell it, Brett.” 

“Should I?” 

“I’ll tell it myself.” 

“What medals have you got, Mike?” 

“I haven’t got any medals.” 

“You must have some.” 

“I suppose I’ve the usual medals. But I never sent 
in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner 
and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards 
said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no med¬ 
als, and I stopped at my tailor’s and he was impressed 
by the invitation, and I thought that’s a good piece of 
business, and I said to him: ‘You’ve got to fix me up 
with some medals.’ He said: ‘What medals, sir?’ And 
I said: ‘Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.’ 
So he said: ‘What medals have you, sir?’ And I said: 


‘How should I know?’ Did he think I spent all my time 
reading the bloody gazette? ‘Just give me a good lot. 
Pick them out yourself.’ So he got me some medals, 
you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, 
and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to 
the dinner, and it was the night they’d shot Henry 
Wilson, so the Prince didn’t come and the King didn’t 
come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves 
were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in 
my pocket.” 

He stopped for us to laugh. 

“Is that all?” 

“That’s all. Perhaps I didn’t tell it right.” 

“You didn’t,” said Brett. “But no matter.” 

We were all laughing. 

Ah, yes, said Mike. “I know now. It was a d am n 
dull dinner, and I couldn’t stick it, so I left. Later on 
in the evening I found the box in my pocket. What’s 
this? I said. Medals? Bloody military medals? So I 
cut them all off their backing—you know, they put them 
on a strip—and gave them all around. Gave one to each 
girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell’s own 
shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. 
Dashing fellow.” 

“Tell the rest,” Brett said. 

“Don’t you think that was funny?” Mike asked. 
We were all laughing. “It was. I swear it was. Any 
rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. 
Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems 
s^ome chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully mili¬ 
tary cove. Se t hell’s own store by them. ” Mike paused. 

“Rotten luck for the tailor,” he said. -*' 

“You don’t mean it,” Bill said. “I should think it 
would have been grand for the tailor.” 



''Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me 
now,” Mike said. “I used to pay him a hundred pounds 
a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn’t send me 
any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. 

It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a 
bitter tone.” 

“How did you go bankrupt?” Bill asked. 

“ Two ways,” Mike said. “Gradua lly and then sud-^ 

“What brought it on?” 

“Friends,” said Mike. “I had a lot of friends. False 
friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more 
creditors than anybody in England.” 

“Tell them about in the court,” Brett said. 

“I don’t remember,” Mike said. “I was just a little 

“TigiltJ” Brett exclaimed. “You were blind!” 

“Extraordinary thing,” Mike said/ “Met my former 
partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink.” 

“Tell them about your learned counsel,” Brett said. 

“I will not,” Mike said. “My learned counsel was 
blind, too. I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going 
down and see these bulls unloaded or not?” 

“Let’s go down.” 

We called the waiter, paid, and started to walk through 
the town. I started off walking with Brett, but Robert 
Cohn came up and joined her on the other side. The 
three of us walked along, past the Ayuntamiento with 
the banners hung from the balcony, down past the mar¬ 
ket and down past the steep street that led to the bridge 
across the Arga. There were many people walking to 
go and see the bulls, and carriages drove down the hill 
and across the bridge, the drivers, the horses, and the 
whips rising above the walking people in the street. 


Across the bridge we turned up a road to the corrals. 
We passed a wine-shop with a sign in the window: 
Good Wine 30 Centimes A Liter. 

“That’s where we’ll go when funds get low,” Brett said. 

The woman standing in the door of the w'ne-shop 
looked at us as we passed. She called to some one in the 
house and three girls came to the window and stared. 
They were staring at Brett. 

At the gate of the corrals two men took tickets from 
the people that went in. We went in through the gate. 
There were trees inside and a low, stone house. At the 
far end was the stone wall of the corrals, with apertures 
in the stone that were like loopholes running all along 
the face of each corral. A ladder led up to the top of 
the wall, and people were climbing up the ladder and 
spreading down to stand on the walls that separated 
the two corrals. As we came up the ladder, walking 
across the grass under the trees, we passed the big, gray 
painted cages with the bulls in them. There was one 
bull in each travelling-box. They had come by train 
from a bull-breeding ranch in Castile, and had been un¬ 
loaded off fiat-cars at the station and brought up here 
to be let out of their cages into the corrals. Each cage 
was stencilled with the name and the brand of the bull- 

We climbed up and found a place on the wall looking 
down into the corral. The stone walls were whitewashed, 
and there was straw on the ground and wooden feed- 
boxes and water-troughs set against the wall. 

“Look up there,” I said. 

Beyond the river rose the plateau of the town. All 
along the old walls and ramparts people were standing. 
The three lines of fortifications made three black lines 
of people. Above the walls there were heads in the win- 



dows of the houses. At the far end of the plateau boys 
had climbed into the trees. 

“They must think something is going to happen,” 
Brett said. 

“They want to see the bulls.” 

Mike and Bill were on the other wall across the pit 
of the corral. They waved to us. People who had come 
late were standing behind us, pressing against us when 
other people crowded them. 

“Why don’t they start?” Robert Cohn asked. 

A single mule was hitched to one of the cages and 
dragged it up against the gate in the corral wall. The 
men shoved and lifted it with crowbars into position 
against the gate. Men were standing on the wall ready 
to pull up the gate of the corral and then the gate of the 
cage. At the other end of the corral a gate opened and 
two steers came in, swaying their heads and trotting, 
their lean flanks swinging. They stood together at the 
far end, their heads toward the ga.te jvhere the bull 
would enter. i , 

“They don’t^look happy,” Brett said. 

The men on top of the wall leaned back and pulled up 
the door of the corral. Then they pulled up the door of 
the cage. y 

I leaned way over the wall and tried to see into the 
cage. It was dark. Some one rapped on the cage with 
an iron bar. Inside something seemed to explode. The 
bull, striking into the wood from side to side with his 
horns, made a great noise. Then I saw a dark muzzle 
and the shadow of horns, and then, with a clattering on 
the wood in the hollow box, the bull charged and came 
out into the corral,, skidding with his forefeet in the 
straw as he stopped, his head up, the great hump of 
muscle on his neck swollen tight, his body muscles quiv- 



enng as he looked up at the crowd on the stone walls. 
The two steers backed away against the wall, their 
heads sunken, their eyes watching the bull. 

The bull saw them and charged. A man shouted from 
behind one of the boxes and slapped his hat against the 
planks, and the bull, before he reached the steer, turned, 
gathered himself and charged where the man had been' 
t tr y ifl g to reach him behind the planks with a half-dozen 
quick, searching drives with the right horn. 

“My God, isn’t he beautiful?” Brett said. We were 
looking right down on him. 

'^“Look how he knows how to use his horns,” I said. 
He’s got a left and a right just like a boxer.” 

“Not really?” 

“You watch.” 

“It goes too fast.” 

Wait. There 11 be another one in a minute.” 

They had backed up another cage into the entrance. 
In the far corner a man, from behind one of the plank 
shelters, attracted the bull, and while the bull was fac¬ 
ing away the gate was pulled up and a second bull came 
out into the corral. 

He charged straight for the steers and two men ran 
out from behind the planks and shouted, to turn him. 
lie did not change his direction and the men shouted: 

Hah! Hah! Toro!” and waved their arms; the two 
steers turned sideways to take the shock, and the bull 
drove into one of the steers. 

Don t look, ’ I said to Brett. She was watching, 

Fine, I said. “If it doesn’t buck you.” 

I saw it, she said. “ I saw him shift from his left to 
p® right horn.” 

“Damn good!” 



The steer was down now, his neck stretched out, his 
head twisted, he lay the way he had fallen. Suddenly 
the bull left off and made for the other steer which had 
been standing at the far end, his head swinging, watch¬ 
ing it all. The steer ran awkwardly and the bull caught 
him, hooked him lightly in the flank, and then turned 
away and looked up at the crowd on the walls, his crest 
of muscle rising. The steer came up to him and made as 
though to nose at him and the bull hooked perfunctorily. 

The next time he nosed at the steer and then the two 
of them trotted over to the other bull. 

When the next bull came out, all three, the two bulls 
and the steer, stood together, their heads side by side, 
their horns against the newcomer. In a few minutes the 
steer picked the new bull up, quieted him down, and 
made him one of the herd. When the last two bulls had 
been unloaded the herd were all together. 

The steer who had been gored had gotten to his feet 
and stood against the stone wall. None of the bulls 
came near him, and he did not attempt to join the herd. 

We climbed down from the wall with the crowd, and 
had a last look at the bulls through the loopholes in the 
wall of the corral. They were all quiet now, their heads 
down. We got a carriage outside and rode up to the 
cafe. Mike and Bill came in half an hour later. They 
had stopped on the way for several drinks. 

We were sitting in the cafe. 

“That’s an extraordinary business/’ Brett said. 

“Will those last ones fight as well as the first?” 
Robert Cohn asked. “They seemed to quiet down 
awfully fast.” 

“They all know each other,” I said. “They’re only ^ 
dangerous when they’re alone, or only two or three of < 
them together.” 


S’ “What do you mean, dangerous?” Bill said. “They 
v All looked dangerous to me.” 

•^.N^'They only want to kill when they’re alone. Of course, 
it you went in there you’d probably detach one of them 
, from the herd, and he’d be dangerous.” 

“That’s too complicated,” Bill said. “Don’t you ever 
detach me from the herd, Mike.” 

“I say,” Mike said, “they were fine bulls, weren’t 
they? Did you see their horns?” 

“Did I not,” said Brett. “I had no idea what they 
were like.” 

“Did you see the one hit that steer?” Mike asked. 
“That was extraordinary.” 

I t’s no . life hein g a stee r.” Rohpr* r»hn gq .Vi 
j “Don’t you think so?” Mike sa?d 7 “rwould have 
mought you’d loved being a steer, Robert.” 

“What do you mean, Mike?” 

^7“ They lead such a quiet life. They nevqr say any¬ 
thing and they’re always hanging about so.”] 

We were embarrassed. Bill laughed. Robert Cohn was 
angry. Mike went on talking. 

“I should think you’d love it. You’d never have to 
say a word. Come on, Robert. Do say something. 
Don’t just sit there.” 

“I said something, Mike. Don’t you remember? 
About the steers.” 

“Oh, say something more. Say something funny. 
Can’t you see we’re all having a good time here?” 

'f “ Come off it, Michael. You’re drunk,” Brett said. 

“ I’m not drunk. I’m quite serious. Is Robert Co hn 
go ing to follow Brett ar ound like asteer all the time?” 

“Shut upTMIcRael. Try ancTsEow a lft'fle breedmg.” 

“Breeding be damned. Who has any breeding, any¬ 
way, except the bulls? Aren’t the bulls lovely? Don’t 


you like them, Bill? Why don’t you say something, 
Robert? Don’t sit there looking like a bloody funeral. 
What if Brett did sleep with you? She’s slept with lots 5 
of better people than you.” 

“Shut up,” Cohn said. He stood up. “Shut up, 

“Oh, don’t stand up and act as though you were going 
to hit me. That won’t make any difference to me. Tell 
me, Robert./ Why do you follow Brett around likp a < 
poor bloody steer? Don’t you know you’re not wanted? 

I know when I’m not wanted. Why don’t you know y ( 
when you’re not wanted ? You came down to San Se- "' 
bastian where you weren’t wanted, and followed Brett 
around like a bloody steer. Do you think that’s right ? ”3 

“Shut up. You’re drunk.” 

“Perhaps I am drunk. Why aren’t you drunk? Why_ 
d on’t you ever ge t drunk, Robert ? You know you cfiSn’t 
have a goocT ume at Sait Sebastian because none of our 
friends would invite you on any of the parties. You 
can’t blame them hardly. Can you? I asked them to. 
They wouldn’t do it. You can’t blame them, now. Can 
vou? Now, answer me. Can you blame them?” 

“Go to hell, Mike.” ~~— 

“I can’t blame them. Can you blame them? Why^ 
do you follow Brett around ? Haven’t you any manners ? 
How do you think it makes me feel?” ^ 

“You’re a splendid one to talk about manners,” Brett 
said. “You’ve such lovely manners.” 

“ Come on, Robert,” Bill said. 

“What do you follow her around for?” 

Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. 

“Don’t go,” Mike said. “Robert Cohn’s going to buy 
a drink.” 

Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn’s face was sallow. Mike 



went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett 
looked disgusted. 

“I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass,” 
l she interrupted. “I’m not saying he’s not right, you 
know.” She turned to me. 

The emotion left Mike’s voice. We were all friends 

“I’m not so damn drunk as I sounded,” he said. 

“I know you’re not,” Brett said. 

“We’re none of us sober,” I said. 

“I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean.” 

“But you put it so badly,” Brett laughed. 

“He was an ass, though. He came down to San Se¬ 
bastian where he damn well wasn’t wanted. He hung 
around Brett and just looked at her. It made me damned 
well sick.” 

~'^* ‘He did behave very badly,” Bre tt said. 

“Mark you. Brett’s had affairs with men before. She 
tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap 
Cohn’s letters to read. I wouldn’t read them.” 

“Damned noble of you.” 

“ No, listen, Jake. Brett’s gone off with men. But they 
weren’t ever Jews, and they didn’t come and hang about 

“Damned good chaps,” Brett said. “It’s all rot to 
talk about it. Michael and I understand each other.” 

“She gave me Robert Cohn’s letters. I wouldn’t read 

“ You wouldn’t read any letters, darling. You wouldn’t 
read mine.” 1 

“I can’t read letters,” Mike said. “Funny, isn’t it?” 

“You can’t read anything.” 

“No. You’re wrong there. I read quite a bit. I 
read when I’m at home.” 



“You’ll be writing next,” Brett said. “Come on, 
Michael. Do buck up. You’ve got to go through withi 
this thing now. He’s here. Don’t spoil the fiesta.” 

“Well, let him behave, then.” 

“He’ll behave. I’ll tell him.” 

“You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave 
or get out.” 

“Yes,” I said, “it would be nice for me to tell him.” 

“Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That 
is perfect, you know.” 

“Oh, no. I can’t.” 

“Go on. We’re all friends. Aren’t we all friends, 



“I can’t tell him. It’s too ridiculous.” 
“I’ll tell him.” 


“You won , t, Michael. Don’t be an ass.” 

L“He calls her Circe,” Mike said. “He claims she 
turns men into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one 
of these literary chaps.” •> 

“He’d be good, you know,” Brett said. “He writes a 
good letter.” 

“I know,” I said. “He wrote me from San Sebastian.” 

“That was nothing,” Brett said. “He can write a 
damned amusing letter.” 

“She made me write that. She was supposed to be 

“I damned well was, too.” 

“Come on,” I said, “we must go in and eat.” 

“How should I meet Cohn?” Mike said. 

“Just act as though nothing had happened.” 

“It’s quite all right with me,” Mike said. “I’m not 

“If he says anything, just say you were tight.” 

“Quite. And the funny thing is I think I was tight.” 



'‘Come on,” Brett said. “Are these poisonous things 
paid for? I must bath** before dinner.” 

We walked across the square. It was dark and all 
around the square were the lights from the cafes under 
the arcades. We walked across the gravel under the 
trees to the hotel. 

They went up-stairs and I stopped to speak with 

“Well, how did you like the bulls?” he asked. 

V “ Good. They were niee3uli 

‘They’re all right”-^Montoya)shook his head—“but 
they’re not too good.” 

“What didn’t you like about them?” 

“I don’t know. They just didn’t give me the feeling 
:hat they were so good.” 

“I know what you mean.” 

“They’re all right.” 

“Yes. They’re all right.” 

“How did your friends like them?” 


“Good,” Montoya said. 

I went up-stairs. Bill was in his room standing on the 
balcony looking out at the square. I stood beside him. 
“Where’s Cohn?” 

“Up-stairs in his room.” 

“How does he feel?” 

“Like hell, naturally. Mike was awful. He’s terrible 
when he’s tight.” 

“He wasn’t so tight.” 

“The hell he wasn’t. I know what we had before we 
came to the cafe.” 

I “He sobered up afterward.” 

Good. He was terrible. I don’t like Cohn, God 
knows, and I think it was a silly trick for him to go 



down to San Sebastian, but nobody has any business 
to talk like Mike.” 

“How’d you like the bulls?” 

“ Grand. It’s grand the way they bring them out.” 

“ To-morrow come the Miuras.” 

“When does the fiesta start?*” 

“Day after to-morrow.” 

“We’ve got to keep Mike from getting so tight. Tha’t 
kind of stuff is terrible.” 

“We’d better eret cleaned up for supper.” 

“Yes. That will be a pleasant meal.” 

“Won’t it?” 

As a matter of fact, supper was z pleasant meal. Brett 
wore a black, sleeveless evening dress. She looked quite 
beautiful. Mike acted as though nothing had happened. 
I had to go up and bring Robert Cohn down. He was 
reserved and formal, and his /ace was still taut and 
sallow, but he cheered up finally. He could not stop 
looking at Brett. It seemed to make him happy. It 
must have been pleasant for him to see her looking so 
lovely, and know he had been away with her and that 
every one knew it. They could not take that away from 
him. Bill w r as very funny. So was Michael. They were 
good together. 

It was like certain dinners I remember from the war. 
There was much wine, an ignored tension, and a feeling 
of things coming that you could not prevent happening. 
/U nder the wine I lost the 

happy. It seemed they were all suchnice people. *] 

V ✓ 


I do not know what time I got to bed. I remember un¬ 
dressing, putting on a bathrobe, and standing out oa 
the balcony. I knew I was quite drunk, and when I 
came m I put on the light over the head of the bed and 
started to read. I was reading a book by Turgenieff. 
Probably I read the same two pages over severaHS&SL 
It was one of the stories in “^ Sports man’s Sketches.” 
I had read it before, but it seemedqmte~ne^^^ 
try became very clear and the feeling of pressure in my 
head seemed to loosen. was very drunk and I did not 
want to shut my eyes because the room would go round 
and round^f I kept on reading that feeling would pass. 

I heard Brett and Robert Cohn come up the stairs. 
Cohn said good night outside the door and went on up 
to his room. I heard Brett go into the room next door. 
Mike was already in bed. He had come in with me aa 
hour before. He woke as she came in, and they talked 
together. I heard them laugh. I dftied off the light 
1111(1 tned to to sleep. It was not necSsary to read 
any more. I could shut my eyes without getting the 
wheeling sensation. £But I could not sleep. There is no 
reason why because it is dait you should look at things 
diffeftnth|from when it is light. The hell there isn’M/ 
v I figur^r that all out once, and for six months I never 
^slept with the electric light off. That was another bright 
idea. To hell with women, anyway. To hell with you 
Brett Ashley. , ’ 

Women made such swell friends. Awfully swell. In 
the first place, you had to be in love with a woman to 



have a basis of friendship. I had been having Brett for 
a friend. I had not been thinking about her side of it. ^ 
I had been getting something for nothing. That only 
delayed the presentation of the bill. The bill always j 
came. That was one of the swell things you could 
count on. 

I thought I had paid for everything. Not like the 
woman pays and pays and pa.vs —NoJdfiaof retribution ' 
or pnnighmpnt PTphangp nf valllPS J YOU gave U g 

s omething and got something el se. Or youworkeSTor 
something. You paid some way for everything that was 
any good. I paid my way into enough things that I 
liked, so that I had a good time. Either you paid by 
learning about them, or by experience, or by taking 
chances, or by money. Enjoying livin g was learning to ^f 
get your money’s worth and knowing when you had it. 
You couIcTget your~moneyV worth. The world was a 
good place to buy in7"TFseeinedTiEe a fine philosophy. 

In five years, I thought, it will seem just as silly as all \f 
the other fine philosophies I’ve had. 

Perhaps that wasn’t true, though. Perhaps as you 
went along you did' learn something. 0 did not 
what itjwas all a bou ^. All I wanted to lmpw was how « 
to live i n it. / Maybe if vQuTdgntI~out hofc to-livn in. it ' 
^ou learned fr om that tvhkl it was all abou t! 

• 1 wished Mike would noF behave so terribly to Cohn, 
though. Mike was a bad drunk. Brett was afgood [/ 
drunk. Bill was a good drunk. Cohn was n^jgfcr drunk. 
Mike was unpleasant after he passed a certain point. I 
liked to see him hurt Cohn. I wished he would not do / 
it, though, because afterward it made me disgusted at 
myself, /pat was morality; things tha lmade y ou dis- 
gusted afterward. that must be immorality. That ; 
was a large statement. What a lot of bilge I coul d think,t 


ufL ai ni ghtl What rot, yCould hear Brett say it. What 
rot! When you were with English you got into the 
habit of using English expressions in your thinking. The 
English spoken language—the upper classes, anyway— 
must have fewer jvords than the Eskimo. Of course I 
didn’t know anything about the Eskimo. Maybe the 
Eskimo was a fine language. Say the Cherokee. I didn’t 
know anything about the Cherokee, either. The English 
talked with inflected phrases. One phrase to mean 
everything. I liked them, though. I liked the way they 
talked. Take Harris. Still Harris was not the upper 

I turned on the light again and read. I read the Tur- 
genieff. I knew that now, reading it in the oversensi¬ 
tized state of my mind after much too much brandy, I 
would remember it somewhere, and afterward it would 
seem as though it had really happened to me. I would 
always have it. That was another good thing you paid 
for and then had. Some time along toward daylight I 
went to sleep. 

The next two days in Pamplona were quiet, and there 
were no more rows. The town was getting ready for the 
fiesta. Workmen put up the gate-posts that were to 
shut off the side streets when the bulls were released 
from the corrals and came running through the streets 
in the morning on their way to the ring. The workmen 
dug holes and litted in the timbers, each timber numbered 
for its regular place. Out on the plateau beypnd the 
town employees of the bull-ring exercised picador horses, 
galloping them stiff-legged on the hard, sun-baked fields 
behind the bull-ring. The big gate of the bull-ring was 
open, and inside the amphitheatre was being swept. 
The ring was rolled and sprinkled, and carpenters re- 



placed weakened or cracked planks in the barrera. 
Standing at the edge of the smooth rolled sand you could 
look up in the empty stands and see old women sweeping 
out the boxes. 

Outside, the fence that led from the last street of the 
town to the entrance of the bull-ring was already in 
place and made a long pen; the crowd would come run¬ 
ning down with the bulls behind them on the morning 
of the day of the first bull-fight. Out across the plain, 
where the horse and cattle fair would be, some gypsies 
had camped under the trees. The wine and aguardiente 
sellers were putting up their booths. One booth adver¬ 
tised anis del toro. The cloth sign hung against the 
planks in the hot sun. In the big square that was 
the centre of the town there was no change yet. We 
sat in the white wicker chairs on the terrasse of the cafe 
and watched the motor-buses come in and unload 
peasants from the country coming in to the market, 
and we watched the buses fill up and start out with 
peasants sitting with their saddle-bags full of the things 
they had bought in the town. The tall gray motor-buses 
were the only life of the square except for the pigeons 
and the man with a hose who sprinkled the gravelled 
square and watered the streets. 

In the evening was the paseo. For an hour after din¬ 
ner every one, all the good-looking girls, the officers 
from the garrison, all the fashionable people of the town, 
walked in the street on one side of the square while the 
cafe tables filled with the regular after-dinner crowd. 

■ During the morning I usually sat in the cafe and read 
the Madrid papers and then walked in the town or out 
into the country. Sometimes Bill went along. Some¬ 
times he wrote in his room. Robert Cohn spent the 
mornings studying Spanish or trying to get a shave at 


the barber-shop. Brett and Mike never got up until 
noon. We all had a vermouth aLjthe cafe. It was a 
quiet life and no one was drunkL J went to church a. 
^c ouple of times, once with Brett. She said she wanted 
^ to hear me~^TS'Tonfession,|'But 1 told heftKat not only 
was~irtnTpossTble-bttt-it was not as interesting as it 
sounded, and, besides, it would be in a language she did 
not know. We met Cohn as we came out of church, 
and although it was obvious he had followed us, yet he 
was very pleasant and nice, and we all three went for 
a walk out to the gypsy camp, and Brett had her for¬ 
tune told. 

It was a good morning, there were high white clouds 
above the mountains. It had rained a little in the night 
and it was fresh and cool on the plateau, and there was 
a wonderful view. We all felt good and we felt healthy, 
and I felt quite friendly to Cohn. You could not be 
upset about anything on a day like that. 

That was the last day before the fiesta. 


At noon of Sunday, the 6th of July, the fiesta ex¬ 
ploded. There is no other way to describe it. People 
had been coming in all day from the country, but they 
were assimilated in the town and you did not notice 
them. The square was as quiet in the hot sun as on 
any other day. The peasants were in the outlying wine¬ 
shops. There they were drinking, getting ready for the 
fiesta. They had come in so recently from the plains and 
the hills that it was necessary that they make their 
shifting in values gradually. They could not start in 
paying cafe prices. They got their money’s worth in the 
wine-shops. Money still had a definite value in hours 
worked and bushels of grain sold. Late in the fiesta it 
would not matter what they paid, nor where they bought. 

Now on the day of the starting of the fiesta of S an 
Fermin they had been in the wine-shops of tfie"narrow 
streets of the town since early morning. Going down 
the streets in the morning on the way to mass in the 
cathedral, I heard them singing through the open doors 
of the shops. They were warming up. There were many 
people at the eleven o’clock mass. San Fermin is also 
a religious festival. 

I walked down the hill from the cathedral and up the 
street to the cafe on the square. It was a little before 
noon. Robert Cohn and Bill were sitting at one of the 
tables. The marble-topped tables and the white wicker 
chairs were gone. They were replaced by cast-iron tables t 
and severe folding chairs. The cafe was like a battleship \> 
stripped for action. To-day the waiters did not leave 



you alone all morning to read without asking if you 
wanted to order something. A waiter came up as soon 
as I sat down. 

“What are you drinking?” I asked Bill and Robert. 

“Sherry,” Cohn said. 

“Jerez,” I said to the waiter. 

Before the waiter brought the sherry the rocket that 
announced the fiesta went up in the square. It burst 
and there was a gray ball of smoke high up above the 
Theatre Gayarre, across on the other side of the plaza. 
The ball of smoke hung in the sky like a shrapnel burst, 
and as I watched, another rocket came up to it, trick¬ 
ling smoke in the bright sunlight. I saw the bright 
flash as it burst and another little cloud of smoke ap¬ 
peared. By the time the second rocket had burst there 
were so many people in the arcade, that had been empty 
a minute before, that the waiter, holding the bottle high 
up over his head, could hardly get through the crowd to 
our table. People were coming into the square from all 
sides, and down the street we heard the pipes and the 
fifes and the drums coming. They were playing the 
riau-riau music, The pipes shrill and the drums pound¬ 
ing, and behind them came the men and boys dancing. 
When the fifers stopped they all crouched down in the 
street, and when the reed-pipes and the fifes shrilled, 
and the flat, dry, hollow drums tapped it out again, they 
all went up in the air dancing. In the crowd you saw 
only the heads and shoulders of the dancers going up 
and down. 

In the square a man, bent over, was playing on a 
reed-pipe, and a crowd of children were following him 
shouting, and pulling at his clothes. He came out of 
the square, the children following him, and piped them 
past the cafe and down a side street. We saw his blank 



i ^pockmarked face as he went by, piping, the children 
l close behind him shouting and pulling at him. 

“He must be the village idiot," Bill said. “My God! 
look at that!" 

Down the street came dancers. The street was solid 
with dancers, all men. They were all dancing in time 
behind their own fifers and drummers. They were a 
club of some sort, and all wore workmen's blue smocks, 
and red handkerchiefs around their necks, and carried 
a great banner on two poles. The banner danced up 
and down with them as they came down surrounded by 
the crowd. 

“Hurray for Wine! Hurray for the Foreigners!" was 
oainted on the banner. 

“Where are the foreigners?" Robert Cohn asked. 

“We're the foreigners," Bill said. 

All the time rockets were going up. The cafe tables 
were all full now. The square was emptying of people 
and the crowd was filling the cafes. 

“Where's Brett and Mike?" Bill asked. 

“I’ll go and get them," Cohn said. 

“Bring them here." 

The fiesta was really started. It kept up day and 
night for seven days. The dancing kept up, the drink¬ 
ing kept up, the noise went on. The things that hap¬ 
pened could only have happened during a fiesta. Every¬ 
thing became quite unreal finally and it seemed as 
though nothing could have any consequences. It seemed 
out of place to think of consequences during the fiesta. 
All during the fiesta you had the feeling, even when it 
was quiet, that you had to shout any remark to make it 
heard. It was the same feeling about any action. It 
was a fiesta and it went o n for seven jiays. 

TEaTa f t uiii uo ii w &Tthe big religious procession. San 



Fermin was translated from one church to another. '% 
the procession were all the dignitaries, civil and religion i. 
We could not see them because the crowd was too great. 
Ahead of the formal procession and behind it danced the 
riau-riau dancers. There was one mass of yellow shirta 
dancing up and down in the crowd. All we could see of 
the procession through the closely pressed people that 
crowded all the side streets and curbs were the great 
giants, cigar-store Indians, thirty feet high, Moors, a 
King and Queen, whirling and waltzing solemnly to the 

They were all standing outside the chapel where Sa» 
Fermin and the dignitaries had passed in leaving a 
guard of soldiers, the giants, with the men who danced 
in them standing beside their resting frames, and the 
dwarfs moving with their whacking bladders through the 
crowd. We started inside and there was a smell of in¬ 
cense and people filing back into the church, but Brett 
was stopped just inside the door because she had no 
hat, so we went out again and along the street that ran 
back from the chapel into town. The street was lined 
on both sides with people keeping their place at the curb 
for the return of the procession. Some dancers formed a 
c ircle around Brett an d started to dance. They wore 
big wreaths of white garlics arouncf their necks. They 
took Bill and me by the arms and put us in the circle. 
Bill started to dance, too. They were all chanting. Brett 
wanted to dance but they did not want her to. They 
wanted he r as an image to dance around. When the 
song ended with the sharp riau-riau I tfiey rushed us 
into a wine-shop. 

We stood at the counter. They had Brett seated on 
a wine-cask. It was dark in the wine-shop and full of 
men singing, hard-voiced singing. Back of the counter 



they drew the wine from casks. I put down money for 
the wine, but one of the men picked it up and put it 
back in my pocket. 

“I want a leather wine-bottle,” Bill said. 

“There's a place down the street,” I said. “I'll go 
get a couple.” 

The dancers did not want me to go out. Three of them 
were sitting on the high wine-cask beside Brett, teaching 
her to drink out of the wine-skins. They had hung a j 
wreath of garlics around her neck. Some one insisted * 
on giving her a glass. Somebody was teaching Bill a 
song. Singing it into his ear. Beating time on Bill’s 

I explained to them that I would be back. Outside in 
the street I went down the street looking for the shop 
that made leather wine-bottles. The crowd was packed 
©n the sidewalks and many of the shops were shuttered, 
and I could not find it. I walked as far as the church, 
looking on both sides of the street. Then I asked a man 
and he took me by the arm and led me to it. The shut¬ 
ters were up but the door was open. 

Inside it smelled of fresh tanned leather and hot tar. 
A man was stencilling completed wine-skins. They hung 
from the roof in bunches. He took one down, blew it up, 
screwed the nozzle tight, and then jumped on it. 

“See! It doesn't leak.” 

“I want another one, too. A big one.” 

He took down a big one that would hold a gallon or 
more, from the roof. He blew it up, his cheeks puffing 
ahead of the wine-skin, and stood on the bota bolding on 
to a chair. 

“What are you going to do? Sell them in Bayonne?” 

“No. Drink out of them.” ; 

He slapped me on the back. 

162 the sun also rises 

“ Good roan. Eight pesetas for the two. The lowest 

The man wno was stencilling the new ones and tossing 
them into a pile stopped. 

“It’s true,” he said. “Eight pesetas is cheap.” 

I paid and went out and along the street back to the 
wine-shop. It was darker than ever inside and very- 
crowded. I did not sec Brett and Bill, and some one said 
they were in the back room. At the counter the girl 
filled the two wine-skins for me. One held two litres. 
The other held five litres. Filling them both cost three 
pesetas sixty centimos. Some one at the counter, that I 
had never seen before, tried to pay for the wine, but I 
finally paid for it myself. The man who had wanted to 
pay then bought me a drink. He would not let me buy 
one in return, but said he would take "a rinse of the 
mouth from the new wine-bag. He tipped the big six- 
litre bag up and squeezed it so the wine hissed against 
the back of his throat. 

“All right,” he said, and handed back the bag. 

In the back room Brett and Bill w<3re sitting on bar¬ 
rels surrounded by the dancers. Everybody had his 
arms on everybody else’s shoulders, and they were all 
singing. Mike was sitting at a table with several men 
in their shirt-sleeves, eating from a bowl of tuna fish, 
chopped onions and vinegar. They were all drinking 
wine and mopping up the oil and vinegar with pieces of 

“Hello, Jake. Hello!” Mike called. “Come here. I 
want you to meet my friends. We’re all having an hors- 

I was introduced to the people at the table. They 
supplied their names to Mike and sent for a fork for 


“Stop eating their dinner, Michael,'” Brett shouted 
from the wine-barrels. 

“I don’t want to eat up your meal,” I said when some 
one handed me a fork. 

“Eat,” he said. “What do you think it’s here for?” 

I unscrewed the nozzle of the big wine-bottle and 
handed it around. Every one took a drink, tipping the 
wine-skin at arm’s length. 

Outside, above the singing, we could hear the music 
of the procession going by. 

“Isn’t that the procession?” Mike asked. 

“Nada,” some one said. “It’s nothing. Drink up. 
Lift the bottle.” 

“Where did they find you?” I asked Mike. 

“Some one brought me here,” Mike said. “They said 
you were here.” 

“Where’s Cohn?” 

“He’s passed out,” Brett called. “They’ve put him 
away somewhere.” 

“Where is he?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“ How should we know,” Bill said. “ I think he’s dead.” 

“He’s not dead,” Mike said. “I know he’s not dead. 
He’s just passed out on Anis del Mono.” 

As he said Anis del Mono one of the men at the table 
looked up, brought out a bottle from inside his smock, 
and handed it to me. 

“No,” I said. “No, thanks!” 

“Yes. Yes. Arriba! Up with the bottle!” 

I took a drink. It tasted of licorice and warmed all the 
way. I could feel it warming in my stomach. 

“Where the hell is Cohn?” 

“I don’t know,” Mike said. “I’ll ask. Where is the 
drunken comrade?” he asked in Spanish. 



“You want to see him?” 

“Yes,” I said. 

“Not me,’' said Mike. “This gent.” 

The Anis del Mono man wiped his mouth and stood 

“Come on.” 

In a back room Robert Cohn was sleeping quietly on 
some wine-casks. It was almost too dark to see his face. 
They had covered him with a coat and another coat 
was folded under his head. Around his neck and on his 
chest was a big wreath of twisted garlics. 

“Let him sleep,” the man whispered. “He’s all right.” 

Two hours later Cohn appeared. He came into the 
front room still with the wreath of garlics around his 
neck. The Spaniards shouted when he came in. Cohn 
wiped his eyes and grinned. 

“I must have been sleeping,” he said. 

“Oh, not at all,” Brett said. 

“You were only dead,” Bill said. 

“Aren’t we going to go and have some supper?” Cohn 

“Do you want to eat?” 

“Yes. Why not? I’m hungry.” 

“Eat those garlics, Robert,” Mike said. “I say. Do 
eat those garlics.” 

Cohn stood there. His sleep had made him quite all 

“Do let’s go and eat,” Brett said. “I must get a 

“Come on,” Bill said. “Let’s translate Brett to the 

We said good-bye to many people and shook hands 
with many people and went out. Outside it was dark. 

“What time is it do you suppose?” Cohn asked. 


“It’s to-morrow,” Mike said. “You’ve been asleep 
two days.” 

“No,” said Cohn, “what time is it?” 

“It’s ten o’clock.” 

“What a lot we’ve drunk.” 

“You mean what a lot we’ve drunk. You went to sleep.” 

Going down the dark streets to the hotel we saw the 
sky-rockets going up in the square. Down the side streets 
that led to the square we saw the square solid with 
people, those in the centre all dancing. 

It was a big meal at the hotel. It was the first meal 
of the prices being doubled for the fiesta, and there were 
several new courses. After the dinner we were out in 
the town. I remember resolving that I would stay up 
all night to watch the bulls go through the streets at 
six o’clock in the morning, and being so sleepy that 1 
went to bed around four o’clock. The others stayed up. 

My own room was locked and I could not find the 
key, so I went up-stairs and slept on one of the beds in 
Cohn’s room. The fiesta was going on outside in the 
ni gh t, but I was too sleepy for it to keep me awake. 
When I woke it was the sound of the rocket exploding 
that announced the release of the bulls from the corrals 
at the edge of town. They would race through the 
streets and out to the bull-ring. I had been sleeping 
heavily and I woke feeling I was too late. I put on a 
coat of Cohn’s and went out on the balcony. Down be¬ 
low the narrow street was empty. All the balconies 
were crowded with people. Suddenly a crowd came down 
the street. They were all running, packed close together. 
They passed along and up the street toward the bull- 
ring and behind them came more men running faster, 
and then some stragglers who were really running. Be¬ 
hind them was a little bare space, and then the bulls. 



galloping, tossing their heads up and down. It all went 
out of sight around the corner. One man fell, rolled to 
the gutter, and lay quiet. But the bulls went right on 
^and did not notice him. They were all running together. 

After they went out of sight a great roar came from 
the bull-ring. It kept on. Then finally the pop of the 
rocket that meant the bulls had gotten through the 
people in the ring and into the corrals. I went back in 
the room and got into bed. I had been standing on 
the stone balcony in bare feet. I knew our crowd must 
have all been out at the bull-ring. Back in bed, I went 
to sleep. 

Cohn woke me when he came in. He started to un¬ 
dress and went over and closed the window because the 
people on the balcony of the house just across the street 
were looking in. 

“Did you see the show?” I asked. 

“Yes. We were all there.” 

“Anybody get hurt?” 

One of the bulls got into the crowd in the ring and 
tossed six or eight people.” 

“How did Brett like it?” 

was all so sudden there wasn’t any time for it to 
bother anybody.” 

“I wish I’d been up.” 

We didn t know where you were. We went to your 
room but it was locked.” 

“Where did you stay up?” 

“We danced at some club.” 

“I got sleepy,” I said. 

'My gosh! I’m sleepy now,” Cohn said. “Doesn’t 
this thing ever stop?” 

“Not for a week.” 

Bill opened the door and put his head in. 



How was 


“Where were you, Jake?” 

“I saw them go through from the balcony, 

“ Grand.” 

“Where you going?” 

“To sleep.” 

No one was up before noon. We ate at tables set out 
under the arcade. The town was full of people. We had 
to wait for a table. After lunch we went over to the 
Iruna. It had filled up, and as the time for the bull-fight 
came it got fuller, and the tables were crowded closer. 
There was a close, crowded hum that came every day 
before the bull-fight. The cafe did not make this same 
noise at any other time, no matter how crowded it was. * 
T his hum went on. and we were in it and a part of it. y 
~Thad taken six seats for all the fights. Three of tEem 
were barreras, the first row at the ring-side, and three 
were sobrepuertos, seats with wooden backs, half-way 
up the amphitheatre. Mike thought Brett had best sit 
high up for her first time, and Cohn wanted to sit with 
them. Bill and I were going to sit in the barreras, and I 
gave the extra ticket to a waiter to sell. Bill said some¬ 
thing to Cohn about what to do and how to look so he 
would not mind the horses. Bill had seen one season of 
bull-fights. ^ 

“I’m not worried about how Ill stand it. I’m only 
afraid I may be bored,” Cohn said. 

“You think so?” 

“Don’t look at the horses, after the bull hits them,” 

I said to Brett. “Watch the charge and see the picador ^ 
try and keep the bull off, but then don’t look again un¬ 
til the horse is dead if it’s been hit.” 

“I’m a little nervy about it,” Brett said. “I’m wor¬ 
ried whether I’ll be able to go through with it all right.” 



“You’ll be all right. There’s nothing but that horse 
part that will bother you, and they’re only in for a few 
minutes with each bull. Just don’t watch when it’s 

“She’ll be all right,” Mike said. “I’ll look after 

“I don’t think you’ll be bored,” Bill said. 

“I’m going over to the hotel to get the glasses and 
the wine-skin,” I said. “See you back here. Don’t get 

“I’ll come along,” Bill said. Brett smiled at us. 

We walked around through the arcade to avoid the 
,heat of the square. 

L “That Cohn gets me,” Bill said. “He’s got this Jew - 
ish superiority so strong that he thinks the only emotion 
Ti gjl get out oi the fight will be Teing~bored.’ r 

“WeTl watch him with The glasses, 7 ”Isaid. 
y “Oh, to hell with him!” 

THe spends a lot of time there.”® 

“I want him to stay there? 7 ~ 

In the hotel on the stairs we met Montoya. 

“Come on,” said Montoya. “Do you want to meet 
Pedro Romero?” 

“Fine,” said Bill. “Let’s go see him.” 

We followed Montoya up a flight and down the cor¬ 

“He’s in room number eight,” Montoya explained. 
“He’s getting dressed for the bull-fight.” 

Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was 
a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the 
window on the narrow street. There were two beds 
separated by a monastic partition. The electric light 
was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling 
in his bull-fighting clothes. His jacket hung over 



the back of a chair. They were just finishing winding 
his sash. His black hair shone under the electric light 
He wore a white linen shirt and the sword-handler fin¬ 
ished his sash and stood up and stepped back. Pedro 
Ro mero nodded, seeming jv ery far awa y and dignified 
when we sh ook hand s. Montoya said something about 
what great aficionados we were, and that we wanted to 
wish him luck. Romero listened very seriously. Then 
he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I have^* 
^ver seen. ^^ 

■*You go to the bull-fight/’ he said in English. 

“You know English,” I said, feeling like an idiot 

“No,” he answered, and smiled. 

One of three men who had been sitting on the beds 
came up and asked us if we spoke French. “Would you 
like me to interpret for you? Is there anything you 
would like to ask Pedro Romero?” 

We thanked him. What was there that you would 
like to ask ? The boy was nineteen years old, alone ex¬ 
cept for his sword-handler, and the three hangers-on, 
and the bull-fight was to commence in twenty minutes. 

We wished him “Mucha suerte,” shook hands, and went 
out. He was standing, straight and handsome and alto¬ 
gether by himself, alone in the room with the hangers-on 
as we shut the door. 

“ He’s a fine boy, don’t you think so ? ” Montoya asked. 

“He’s a good-looking kid,” I said. 

“He looks like a torero,” Montoya said. “He has the 

' “He’s a fine boy.” 

“We’ll see how he is in the ring,” Montoya said. 

We found the big leather wine-bottle leaning against 
the wall in my room, took it and the field-glasses, locked 
the door, and went down-staris. 



It was a good bull-fight. Bill and I were very excited 
about Pedro Romero. Montoya was sitting about ten 
places away. After Romero had killed his first bull 
Montoya caught my eye and nodded his head. This was 

real one. There had not been a real one for a long 
time. Of the other two matadors, one was very fair 
and the other was passable. But there was no com¬ 
parison with Romero, although neither of his bulls was 

Several times during the bull-fight I looked up at 
Mike and Brett and Cohn, with the glasses. They 
seemed to be all right. Brett did not look upset. All 
three were leaning forward on the concrete railing in 
front of them. 

“Let me take the glasses,” Bill said. 

“Does Cohn look bored?” I asked. 

“That kike!”< 2 , 

Outside the ring, after the bull-fight was over, you 
could not move in the crowd. We could not make our 
way through but had to be moved with the whole thing, 
slowly, as a glacier, back to town. /W e had that disturbed 
/ e motio naLfe eling that al ways comes af ter a bull-fight, 
/ an d th ejeeli ng of el ation that comes after~a'~gond bull¬ 
fight- The fiesta was going on. The drums pounded 
and the pipe music was shrill, and everywhere the flow 
of the crowd was broken by patches of dancers. The 
dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the intricate 
play of the feet. All you saw was the heads and shoul¬ 
ders going up and down, up and down. Finally, we got 
out of the crowd and made for the cafe. The waiter 
saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an 
absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the 

“What do you suppose that dance is?” Bill asked. 




“It's a sort of jota.” 

“They're not all the same,” Bill said. “They dance 
differently to all the different tunes.” 

“It’s swell dancing.” 

In front of us on a clear part of the street a company 
of boys were dancing. The steps were very intricate 
and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all 
looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes 
tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched, 
The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then 
the music broke wildly and the step was finished and 
they were all dancing on up the street. 

“Here come the gentry,” Bill said. 

They were crossing the street. 

“Hello, men,” I said. 

“Hello, gents!” said Brett. “You saved us seats? 
How nice.” 

“I say,” Mike said, “that Romero what’shisname is 
somebody. Am I wrong?” 

“Oh, isn’t he lovely,” Brett said. “And those green 

“Brett never took her eyes off them.” 

“I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow.” 

“How did it go?” 

“Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spec-^ 
tade!” 00 

“How about the horses?” 

“I couldn’t help looking at them.” 

“She couldn’t take her eyes off them,” Mike said.-g* 
“She’s an extraordinary wench.” 

“They do have somejrather awful Jhings jiapp en to 
them; Tr TffretrBaid. “I couldn’t look away, though.” 
^ DlJySli fegFnl T r igh t?*’.. .. 

“I didn’t feel badly at all.” 



“Robert Cohn did,” Mike put in. “You were quite 
green, Robert.” 

“The first horse did bother me,” Cohn said. 

“You weren’t bored, were you?” asked Bill. 

Cohn laughed. 

/ 't“No. I wasn’t bored. I wish you’d forgive me that.” 

“It’s all right,” Bill said, “so long as you weren’t 

“He didn’t look bored,” Mike said. “I thought he 
was going to be sick.” 

“I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute.” 
Sty" I thought he was going to be sick. You weren’t 
bored, were you, Robert?” 

“Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said 

“He was, you know. He was positively green.” 

“Oh, shove it along, Michael.” 

“You mustn’t ever get bored at your first bull-fight, 
Robert,” Mike said. “It might make such a mess.” 

&“ Oh. shove it along, Michael,” Brett said . 

“He said Brett was a sadist,” Mike said. “Brett’s not 
a sadist. She’s just a lovely, healthy wen ch.” 

“Are you a sadist, Brett?” I asked. 

“Hope not.” 

“He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a 
good, healthy stomach.” 

“Won’t be healthy long.” 

Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. 
The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. 
y “Did you really like it?” Bill asked Cohn. 

^Sf'No, I can’t say I liked it. I think it’s a wonderful 

“Gad, yes! What a spectacle!” Brett said. 

“I wish they didn’t have the horse part,” Cohn said. 


i 73 

“They’re not important,” Bill said. “After a while 
you never notice anything disgusting.” 

“It is a bit strong just at the start,” Brett said. 
“There’s a dreadful moment for me just when the bull 
starts for the horse.” 

“The bulls were fine,” Cohn said. 

“They were very good,” Mike said. 

“I want to sit down below, next time.” Brett drank 
from her glass of absinthe. 

“ She wants to see the bull-fighters close by,” Mike said. 

“They are something,” Brett said. “That Romero 
lad is just a child.” 

“He’s a damned good-looking boy,” I said. “When 
we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking 

“How old do you suppose he is?” 

“Nineteen or twenty.” 

“Just imagine it.” 

The bull-fight on the second day was much better 
than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the 
barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was 
the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other 
bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard- 
shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two 
other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside 
Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I 
told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the 
bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the 
picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what 
it was all about, so that it became more something that 
was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle' 
with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero 
took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, 
and how he held him with the cape and turned him, 



smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw 
how Romero avoided every brusque movement and 
saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not 
winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. 
She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, 
and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters 
used to make it look as though they were working closely. 
She saw why she liked Romero’s cape-work and why 
she did not like the others. 

Romero never made any contortions, always it was 
straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted 
themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned 
against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, 
to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was 
faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Ro¬ 
mero’s bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept 
the absolute purity of line in his movements and always 
quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each 
time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. 
Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close 
to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. 
I told her how since the death of Joselito all the bull¬ 
fighters had been developing a technic that simulated 
this appearance of danger in order to give a fake emo¬ 
tional feeling, while the bull-fighter was really safe. 
^Romero had the o ld thing, the holding of his p urity of 
line through the maximum ot 

wbih he domi- 

n realize he was unattain¬ 

able, while he- prepared hini for the killing. 

“I’ve never seen him do an awkward thing,” Brett 


“You won’t until he gets frightened,” I said. 

“He’ll never be frightened,” Mike said. “He knows 
too damned much.” 


I 7 S 

“He knew everything when he started. The others 
can’t ever learn what he was. born with.” 

“And God, what looks,” Brett said. 

“I believe, you know, that she’s falling in love with 
this bull-fighter chap,” Mike said. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” 

“Be a good chap, Jake. Don’t tell her anything more 
about him. Tell her how they beat their old mothers.” 

“Tell me what drunks they are.” 

“ Oh, frightful,” Mike said. “ Drunk all day and spend 
all their time beating their poor old mothers.” 

“He looks that way,” Brett said. 

“Doesn’t he?” I said. 

They had hitched the mules to the dead bull and then 
the whips cracked, the men ran, and the mules, strain-^, 
ing forward, their legs pushing, broke into a gallop, and"*" 
the bull, one horn up, his head on its side, swept a 
swath smoothly across the sand and out the red gate.^* 

“This next is the last one.” 

“Not really,” Brett said. She leaned forward on the 
barrera. Romero waved his picadors to their places, 
then stood, his cape against his chest, looking across the 
ring to where the bull would come out. 

After it w^as over we went out and were pressed tight 
in the crowd. 

“These bull-fights are hell on one,” Brett said. “I’m 
limp as a rag.” 

“Oh, you’ll get a drink,” Mike said. 

The next day Pedro Romero did not fight. It was 
Miura bulls, and a very bad bull-fight. The next day 
there was no bull-fight scheduled. But all day and all 
night the fiesta kept on. 


In the morning it was raining. A fog had come over 
the mountains from the sea. You could not see the tops 
of the mountains. The plateau was dull and gloomy, 
and the shapes of the trees and the houses were changed. 
I walked out beyond the town to look at the weather. 
The bad weather was coming over the mountains from 
the sea. 

The flags in the square hung wet from the white poles 
and the banners were wet and hung damp against the 
front of the houses, and in between the steady drizzle the 
rain came down and drove every one under the arcades 
and made pools of water in the square, and the streets 
wet and dark and deserted; yet the fiesta kept up with¬ 
out any pause. It was only driven under cover. 

The covered seats of the bull-ring had been crowded 
with people sitting out of the rain watching the con¬ 
course of Basque and Navarrais dancers and singers, 
and afterward the Val Carlos dancers in their costumes 
danced down the street in the rain, the drums sounding 
holj^w and damp, and the chiefs of the bands riding 
ahead on their big, heavy-footed horses, their costumes 
wet, the horses’ coats wet in the rain. The crowd was 
in the cafes and the dancers came in, too, and sat, their 
tight-wound white legs under the tables, shaking the 
water from their belled caps, and spreading their red 
and purple jackets over the chairs to dry. It was rain¬ 
ing hard outside. 

I left the crowd in the caf6 and went over to the hotel 
to get shaved for dinner. I was shaving in my room 
when there was a knock on the door. 




“Come in,” I called. 

Montoya walked in. 

“How are you?” he said. 

“Fine,” I said. I 

“No bulls to-day.” 

“No,” I said, “nothing but rain.” 

“Where are your friends?” 

“Over at the Iruna.” 

Montoya smiled his embarrassed smile. 

“Look,” he said. “Do you know the American aui' 

“Yes,” I said. “Everybody knows the American 

“He’s here in town, now.” 

“Yes,” I said. “Everybody’s seen them.” 

“I’ve seen them, too,” Montoya said. He didn’t say 
anything. I went on shaving. 

“Sit down,” I said. “Let me send for a drink.” 

“No, I have to go.” 

I finished shaving and put my face down into the 
bowl and washed it with cold water. Montoya was stand¬ 
ing there looking more embarrassed. 

“Look,” he said. “I've just had a message from them 
at the Grand Hotel that they want Pedro Romero and'" ~ 
M&rdal Lalanda to come over for coffee to-night after __ 

“Well,” I said, “it can't hurt Marcial any.” 

“Marcial has been in San Sebastian all day. He drove! 
over in a car this morning with Marquez. I don’t think 
they’ll be back to-night.” 

Montoya stood embarrassed. He wanted me to say 

“Don’t give Romero the message,” I said. 

“You think so?” 




Montoya was very pleased. 

“I wanted to ask you because you were an American,” 
he said. 

“That’s what I’d do.” 

^ “Look,” said Montoya. “People take a boy like that. 
They don’t know what he’s worth. They don’t know 
what he means. Any foreigner can flatter him. They 
start this Grand Hotel business, and in one year they’re 

“Like Algabeno,” I said. 

“Yes, like Algabeno.” 

“ They’re a fine lot/’ I said. “ Therm s one Americ an 
woma n down here n ow that collects bull-fight ers.” 

' U 1 know? They only want the young ones?’ 

“Yes,” I said. “The old ones get fat.” 

“Or crazy like Gallo.” 

“Well,” I said, “it’s easy. All you have to do is not 
give him the message.” 

“He’s such a fine boy,” said Montoya. “He ought 
to stay with his own people. He shouldn’t mix in that 

“Won’t you have a drink?” I asked. 

“No,” said Montoya, “I have to go.” He went out. 

I went down-stairs and out the door and took a walk 
around through the arcades around the square. It was 
stiffsraining. I looked in at the Iruna for the gang and 
they were not there, so I walked on around the square 
and back to the hotel. They were eating dinner in the 
down-stairs dining-room. 

They were well ahead of me and it was no use trying 
to catch them. Bill was buying shoe-shines for Mike. 
Bootblacks opened the street door and each one Bill 
called over and started to work on Mike. 


“This is the eleventh time my boots have been pol¬ 
ished,” Mike said “I say, Bill is an ass.” 

The bootblacks had evidently spread the report. An¬ 
other came in. 

“Limpia botas?” he said to Bill. 

“No,” said Bill. .“For this Senor.” 

The bootblack knelt down beside the one at work 
and started on Mike’s free shoe that shone already in 
the electric light. 

“Bill’s a yell of laughter,” Mike said. 

I was drinking red wine, and so far behind them that 
I felt a little uncomfortable about all this shoe-shining. 
I looked around the room. At the next table was Pedro 
Romero. He stood up when I nodded, and asked me 
to come over and meet a friend. His table was beside 
ours, almost touching. I met the friend, a Madrid bull¬ 
fight critic, a little man with a drawn face. I told Romero 
how much I liked his work, and he was very pleased. 
We talked Spanish and the critic knew a little French. 
I reached to our table for my wine-bottle, but the critic 
took my arm. Romero laughed. 

“Drink here,” he said in English. 

He was very bashful about his English, but he was 
really very pleased with it, and as we went on talking 
he brought out words he was not sure of, and asked me 
about them. He was anxious to know the English for 
Corrida de toros , the exact translation. Bull-fight he 
was suspicious of. I explained that bull-fight in Spanish 
was the lidia of a toro. The Spanish word corrida means 
in English the running of bulls—the French translation 
is Course de taureaux . The critic put that in. There is 
no Spanish word for bull-fight. 

Pedro Romero said he had learned a little English in 
Gibraltar. He was born in Ronda. That is not far 



above Gibraltar. He started bull-fighting in Malaga in 
the bull-fighting school there. He had only been at it 
three years. The bull-fight critic joked him about the 
number of Malagueno expressions he used. He was nine¬ 
teen years old, he said. His older brother was with him 
as a banderillero, but he did not live in this hotel. He 
lived in a smaller hotel with the other people who worked 
for Romero. He asked me how many times I had seen 
him in the ring. I told him only three. It was really 
only two, but I did not want to explain after I had made 
the mistake. 

“Where did you see me the other time? In Madrid?” 

“Yes,” I lied. I had read, the accounts of his two ap¬ 
pearances in Madrid in the bull-fight papers, so I was 
all right. 

“The first or the second time?” 

“The first.” 

“I was very bad,” he said. “The second time I was 
better. You remember?” He turned to the critic. 

^ He was not at all embarrassed. He talked of his work 
^■tis something altogether apart from himself. There was 
nothing conceited or braggartly about him. 

“I like it very much that you like my work,” he said. 
“But you haven’t seen it yet. To-morrow, if I get a 
good bull, I will try and show it to you.” 

When he said this he smiled, anxious that neither the 
bull-fight critic nor I would think he was boasting. 

“I am anxious to see it,” the critic said. “I would 
like to be convinced.” 

“He doesn’t like my work much.” Romero turned to 
me. He was serious. 

The critic explained that he liked it very much, but 
that so far it had been incomplete. 

“Wait till to-morrow, if a good one comes out.” 


“Have you seen the bulls for to-morrow?” the critic 
asked me. 

“Yes. I saw them unloaded.” 

Pedro Romero leaned forward. 

“What did you think of them?” 

“Very nice,” I said. “About twenty-six arrobas. 
Very short horns. Haven’t you seen them ? ” 

“Oh, yes,” said Romero. 

“They won’t weigh twenty-six arrobas.” said the critic. 

“No,” said Romero. 

“They’ve got bananas for horns,” the critic said. 

“You call them bananas?” asked Romero. He turned 
to me and smiled. “ You wouldn’t call them bananas?” - 

“No,” I said “They’re horns all right.” 

“They’re very short,” said Pedro Romero. “Very, 
very short Still, they aren’t bananas.” 

“I say, Jake,” Brett called from the next table, “you 
have deserted us.” 

“Just temporarily,” I said. “We’re talking bulls.” 

“You are superior.”<J° 

“Tell him that bulls have no horns,” Mike shouted. 

He was drunk. 

Romero looked at me inquiringly. 

“Drunk,” I said. “Borracho! Muy borracho!” 

“You might introduce your friends,” Brett said. She 
had not stopped looking at Pedro Romero. I asked 
them if they would like to have coffee with us. They 
both stood up. Romero’s face was very brown. He had 
very nice manners. 

I introduced them all around and they started to sit 
down, but there was not enough room, so we all moved 
over to the big table by the wall to have coffee. Mike 
ordered a bottle of Fundador and glasses for everybody. 
There was a lot of drunken talking. 


“Tell him I think writing is lousy,” Bill said. “Go 
on, tell him. Tell him I’m ashamed of being a writer.” 

Pedro Romero was sitting beside Brett and list enin g 
to her. 

“ Go on. Tell him! ” Bill said. 

Romero looked up smiling. 

“This gentleman,” I said, “is a writer.” 

Romero was impressed. “This other one, too,” I 
said, pointing at Cohn. 

“He looks like Villalta,” Romero said, looking at 
Bill. “Rafael, doesn’t he look like Villalta?” 

“I can’t see it,” the critic said. 

“Really,” Romero said in Spanish. “He looks a lot 
like Villalta. What does the drunken one do?” 


“Is that why he drinks?” 

“No. He’s waiting to marry this lady.” 

“Tell him bulls have no horns!” Mike shouted, very 
drunk, from the other end of the table. 

“What does he say?” 

“He’s drunk.” 

^ijake,” Mike called. “Tell him bulls have no horns! ” 

“You understand?” I said. 


I was sure he didn’t, so it was all right. 

“Tell him Brett wants to see him put on those green 

“Pipe down, Mike.” 

“ Tell him Brett is dying to know how he can get inti 
those pants.” 

“Pipe down.” 

During this Romero was fingering his glass and talk 
ing with Brett. Brett was talking French and he was 
talking Spanish and a little English, and lau ghing 



Bill was filling the glasses. 

“Tell him Brett wants to come into-” 

“Oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ’s sake!” 

Romero looked up smiling. “Pipe down! I know 
that,” he said. 

Just then Montoya came into the room. He started 
to smile at me, then he saw Pedro Romero with a big 
glass of cognac in his hand, sitting laughing between me 
and a woman with bare shoulders, at a table full of 
drunks. He did not even nod. 

Montoya went out of the room. Mike was on his feet 
proposing a toast. “Let’s all drink to—” he began. 
“Pedro Romero,” I said. Everybody stood up. Romero 
took it very seriously, and we touched glasses and drank 
it down, I rushing it a little because Mike was trying 
to make it clear that that was not at all what he was 
going to drink to. But it went off all right, and Pedro 
Romero shook hands with every one and he and the 
critic went out together. 

“My God ! he’s a lovely boy,” Brett said. “And how 
I would love to see him get into those clothes. He must 
use a shoe-horn.” 

“I started to tell him,” Mike began. “And Jake kept 
interrupting me. Why do you interrupt me? Do you 
think you talk Spanish better than I do?” 

“Oh, shut up, Mike! Nobody interrupted you.” 

“No, I’d like to get this settled.” He turned away 
tfrom me. “Do you think you amount to something, 
vCohn ? Do you think you belong here among us ? Peo¬ 
ple who are out to have a good time? For God’s sake 
(don’t be so noisy, Cohn!” 
c “Oh, cut it out, Mike,” Cohn said. 

< “Do you think Brett wants you here? Do you think 
' you add to the party? Why don’t you say something?” 



, “I said all I had to say the other night, Mike/* 

' “I’m not one of you literary chaps.” Mike stood 
shakily and leaned against the table. “I’m not* clever. 
But I do know when I’m not wanted. Why don’t you 
see when you’re not wanted, Cohn ? Go away. Go away, 
for God’s sake. Take that sad Jewish face away. Don’t 
you think I’m right?” 

He looked at us. 

“Sure,” I said. “Let’s all go over to the Iruna.” 

“No. Don’t you think I’m right ? I love that woman.” 

“Oh, don’t start that again. Do shove it along, 
Michael,” Brett said. 

“Don’t you think I’m right, Jake?” 

Cohn still sat at the table. His face had the sallow, 
yellow look it got when he was insulted, but somehow 
he seemed to be enjoying it. The childish, drunken 
heroics of it. It was his affair with a lady of title. 

“Jake,” Mike said. He was almost crying. “You 
know I’m right. Listen, you!” He turned to Cohn: 
“ Go away! Go away now! ” 

“But I won’t go, Mike,” said Cohn. 

“Then I’ll make you!” Mike started toward him 
around the table. Cohn stood up and took off his glasses. 
He stood waiting, his face sallow, his hands fairly low, 
proudly and firmly waiting for the assault, ready to do 
battle for his lady love. 

I grabbed Mike. “Come on to the cafe,” I said. “You 
can’t hit him here in the hotel.” 

“ Good! ” said Mike. “ Good idea! ” 

We started off. I looked back as Mike stumbled up the 
stairs and saw Cohn putting his glasses on again. Bill was 
sitting at the table pouring another glass of Fundador. 
Brett was sitting looking straight ahead at nothing. 

Outside on the square it had stopped raining and the 



moon was trying to get through the clouds. There was 
a wind blowing. The military band was playing and 
the crowd was massed on the far side of the square where 
the fireworks specialist and his son were trying to send 
up fire balloons. A balloon would start up jerkily, on a 
great bias, and be torn by the wind or blown against 
the houses of the square. Some fell into the crowd. The 
magnesium flared and the fireworks exploded and chased 
about in the crowd. There was no one dancing in the 
square. The gravel was too wet. 

Brett came out with Bill and joined us. We stood in 
the crowd and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fire¬ 
works king, standing on a little platform, carefully start¬ 
ing the balloons with sticks, standing above the heads of 
the crowd to launch the balloons off into the wind. The 
wind brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito’s 
face was sweaty in the light of his complicated fireworks 
that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sput¬ 
tering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The 
people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble 
careened, caught fire, and fell. 

“ They’re razzing Don Manuel,” Bill said. 

“How do you know he’s Don Manuel?” Brett said. 

“His name’s on the programme. Don Manuel Or¬ 
quito, the pirotecnico of esta ciudad.” 

“Globos illuminados,” Mike said. “A collection of 
globos illuminados. That’s what the paper said.” 

The wind blew the band music away. 

“I say, I wish one would go up,” Brett said. “That 
Don Manuel chap is furious.” 

“He’s probably worked for weeks fixing them to go 
off, spelling out ‘Hail to San Fermin,’” Bill said. 

“ Globos illuminados,” Mike said. “ A bunch of blood^ 
globos illuminados.” 



“Come on,” said Brett. “We can’t stand here.” 

“Her ladyship wants a drink,” Mike said. 

“How you know things,” Brett said. 

Inside, the cafe was crowded and very noisy. No one 
noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There 
was a great noise going on. 

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Bill said. 

Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. 
There were some English and Americans from Biarritz 
in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the 
women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. 
We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill’s from 
Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand 
Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to 

“Here’s the pub,” Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, 
a small, tough bar where you could get food and where 
they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a 
table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was 
not full. There was nothing going on. 

“This is a hell of a place,” Bill said. 

“It’s too early.” 

“Let’s take the bottle and come back later,” Bill said. 
“I don’t want to sit here on a night like this.” 

“Let’s go and look at the English,” Mike said. “I 
love to look at the English.” 

“They’re awful,” Bill said. “Where did they all come 

“They come from Biarritz,” Mike said. “They come 
to see the last day of the quaint little Spanish festa.” 

“I’ll festa them,” Bill said. 

“You’re an extraordinarily beautiful girl.” Mike 
turned to Bill’s friend. “When did you come here?” 

“Come off it, Michael.” 


“I say, she is a lovely girl. Where have I been? 
Where have I been looking all this while ? You re a ^ 
lovely thing. Have we met? Come along with me and 
Bill. We’re going to festa the English.” 

“I’ll festa them,” Bill said. “What the hell are they 
doing at this fiesta?” 

“Come on,” Mike said. “Just us three. We’re going 
to festa the bloody English. I hope you’re not English? 
I’m Scotch. I hate the English. I’m going to festa 
them. Come on, Bill.” 

Through the window we saw them, all three arm in 
arm, going toward the caf6. Rockets were going up in 
the square. 

“I’m going to sit here,” Brett said. 

“I’ll stay with you,” Cohn said. 

“Oh, don’t!” Brett said. “For God’s sake, go off 
somewhere. Can’t you see Jake and I want to talk ? ” ^ 

“I didn’t,” Cohn said. “I thought I’d sit here be- < 
cause I felt a little tight.” 

“What a hell of a reason for sitting with any one. If 

you’re tight, go to bed. Go on to bed.” 

“Was I rude enough to him?” Brett asked. Cohn wag, 
gone. “My God! I’m so sick of him!” 

“He doesn’t add much to the gayety.” 

“He depresses me so.” 

“He’s behaved very badly.” 

“Damned badly. He had a chance to behave so well.” 

“He’s probably waiting just outside the door now.” 

“Yes. He would. / You know I do know how he feels.' 
He can’t believe it didn’t mean anythin g.”7 
I know.” 

“Nobody else would behave as badly. Oh, I’m so sick 
of the whole thing. And Michael. Michael’s been lovely, 



“It’s been damned hard on Mike.” 

“Yes. But he didn’t need to be a swine.” 

“Everybody behaves badly,” I said. “Give them the 
proper chance.” 

“You wouldn’t behave badly.” Brett looked at me. 

“I’d be as big an ass as Cohn,” I said. 

“Darling, don’t let’s talk a lot of rot.” 

“All right. Talk about anything you like.” 

“Don’t be difficult. You’re the only person I’ve got, 
-and I feel rather awful to-night.” 

“You’ve got Mike.” 

“Yes, Mike. Hasn’t he been pretty?” 

“Well,” I said, “it’s been damned hard on Mike, hav¬ 
ing Cohn around and seeing him with you.” 

“Don’t I know it, darling? Please don’t make me 
feel any worse than I do.” 

Brett was nervous as I had never seen her before. 
She kept looking away from me and looking ahead at 
the wall. 

“Want to go for a walk?” 

“Yes. Come on.” 

I corked up the Fundador bottle and gave it to the 

^Let’s have one more drink of that,” Brett said. “My 
nerves are rotten.” 

We each drank a glass of the smooth amontillado 

“Come on,” said Brett. 

As we came out the door I saw Cohn walk out from 
under the arcade. 

“He was there,” Brett said. 

“He can’t be away from you.” 

“Poor devil!” 



“I hate him, too,” she shivered. “I hate his dai 

suffering. ' ' 

We walked arm in arm down the side street away from 
the crowd and the lights of the square. The street was 
dark and wet, and we walked along it to the fortifica¬ 
tions at the edge of town. We passed wine-shops with 
light coming out from their doors onto the black, wet 
street, and sudden bursts of music. 

“Want to go in?” 


We walked out across the wet grass and onto the stone 
wall of the fortifications. I spread a newspaper on the 
stone and Brett sat down. Across the plain it was dark, 
and we could see the mountains. The wind was high up 
and took the clouds across the moon. Below us were the 
dark pits of the fortifications. Behind were the trees 
and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhou¬ 
etted against the moon. 

“Don't feel bad,” I said. 

“I feel like hell,” Brett said. “Don’t let's talk.” 

We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees w^ere 
dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car 
on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of 
the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to 
the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and 
black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. 
We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. 
Suddenly she shivered. 

“It's cold.” 

“Want to walk back?” 

“Through the park.” 

We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In 
the park it was dark under the trees. 

“Do you still love me, Jake?” 





“Yes,” I said. 

“ Becaus e T ’m g ^ r>rw: ‘ r i” Brett said. 

^ “How?” 

“ I’m a goner. I’m mad about the Romero bov. I'm 
in love with him”! think. n 
j wouldn't be i t I wgre you.” 

I “I can’t help it.fl’m a gonej It’s tear i ng me all u p 
^ 4faside .” 

fez “Don’t do it.” 

~7 -^“1 can’t help it. I’ve never been able to help an y¬ 
thing --' 

“You ought to stop it.” 

“How can I stop it? I can’t stop things. Feel that?” 
Her hand was trembling. 

“I’m like that all through.” 

“You oughtn’t to do it.” 

& “I can’t help it. I’m a goner now, anyway. Don’t 
you see the difference?” 


“I’ve got to do something. / I ’ve got to do something 
~^I really want to do. I’ve lost my self-respect? 7 ? 

“You don’t have to do that.” 

“Oh, darling, don’t be difficult. What do you think 
it’s meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike 
the way he’s acted?” 


“I can’t just stay tight all the time.” 


(2 “Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me 

and seeThe through this. 7 ’ -- 

’^ure?’ -- 

“ I- don’t say it’s right. It is right though for m e. 
God knows. I’ve never felt suc h a bitch?* 

“What do you want me~to~do?” 



“Come on,” Brett said. “Let’s go and find him.” 

Together we walked down the gravel path in the park 
in the dark, under the trees and then out from under 
the trees and past the gate into the street that led into 

Pedro Romero was in the caf£. He was at a table with 
other bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were 
smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. 
Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table 
half-way down the room. 

“Ask him to come over and have a drink.” 

“Not yet. He’ll come over.” 

“I can’t look at him.” 

“He’s nice to look at,” I said. 

“T’vp always done m at what I wan ted.” 

“I know.” 

“ I do feel such a bitch .” 

“Well,” I said. 

“My God!” said Brett, “the things a woman goes 

6> X 

Pedro Romero smiled 
He said something to the other people at his table, and 
stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up ana 
we shook hands. 

“Won’t you have a drink?” 

“ You must have a drink with me,” he said. He seated 
himself, asking Brett’s permission without saying any¬ 
thing. He had very nic e manners. But he kept on smok¬ 
ing his*agar! It wentTwell with his face. 

“You like cigars?” I asked. p 

“Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars.”' n 

It was part of his system of authority. It made him 


“Oh, 1 1 do feel suc h a bitch/ \ 
I looked across~a/E 


t V 2 

seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth 
and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his 
cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there 
was something between them. He must have felt it 
when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very care¬ 
ful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make 
any mistake. 

“You fight to-morrow?” I said. 

“Yes,” he said. “Algabeno was hurt to-day in Ma¬ 
drid. Did you hear?” 

“No” I said. “Badly?” 

He shook his head. 

“Nothing. Here,” he showed his hand. Brett reached 
out and soread the fingers apart. 

“Oh!” he said in English, “you tell fortunes?” 

“Sometime^ Do you mind?” 

“No. I like it.” He spread his hand fiat on the table. 
“Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire.” 

He was still very p .Jte, but he was surer of him¬ 
self. “Look,” he said, “do you see any bulls in my 

He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist 
was small. 

“There are thousands of bulls,” Brett said. She was 
not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. 

“Good,” Romero laughed. “At a thousand duros 
apiece,” he said to me in Spanish. “Tell me some more.” 

_“It’s a good hand,” Brett said. “I think he’ll live a 

long time,” 

“Say it to me. Not to your friend.” 
p “I said you’d live a long time.” 

^-^>1 know it,” Romero said. “I’m never going to die.” 

I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero 
saw it. He shook his head. 


“No. Don’t do that. The bulls are my best friends.’ 

I translated to Brett. 

“You kill your friends?” she asked. 

“A lways,” he said in English, and laugh ed. “Salhey 
don’t kill me.” He looked at her across the tab le. A 

“You know English well.” 

“Yes,” he said. “Pretty well, sometimes. But I must 
not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero 
who speaks English.” 

“Why?” asked Brett. 

“ It would be bad. The people would not like it. 
Not yet.” 

“Why not?” 

“They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like 

“What are bull-fighters like?” ■&’ 

He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and 
changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of hi9 

face. f °' 

“Like at the table,” he said. I glanced over. He had 
mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, 
his face natural again. “No. I must forget English.” 

“Don’t forget it, yet,” Brett said 


“No.” ' 1 

“All right.” 

He laughed again. 

“I would like a hat like that,” Brett said. ^ 

“Good. I’ll get you one.” 

“Right. See that you do.” 

“I will. I’ll get you one to-night.” 

I stood up. Romero rose, too. 

“Sit down,” I said. “I must go and find our friends 
and bring them here.” 



He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were 
understood. It was understood all right. 

"Sit down,” Brett said to him. “You must teach me 

He sat down and looked at her across the table. I 
went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter 
table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came 
back and looked in the cafe, twenty minutes later, Brett 
and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and 
our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A 
waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and 
mopped off the table. 


Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and 
Edna was the girl’s name. 

“We’ve been thrown out,” Edna said. 

“By the police,” said Mike. “There’s some people in 
there that don’t like me.” 

“I’ve kept them out of four fights,” Edna said. 
“You’ve got to help me.” 

Bill’s face was red. 

“Come back in, Edna,” he said. “Go on in there and 
dance with Mike.” 

“It’s silly,” Edna said. “There’ll just be another row.” 
^“ Damned Biarritz swine^ ” Bill said. 
° ? “Come"on7 T lvIIkrsaid. ‘‘After all, it’s a pub. They 
can’t occupy a whole pub.” 

“Good old Mike,” Bill said. “Damned English swine 
come here and insult Mike and try and spoil the fiesta. 

“ They’re so bloody,” Mike said. “ I hate the English.” 

“They can’t insult Mike,” Bill said. “Mike is a swell 
fellow. They can’t insult Mike. I won’t stand it. Who 
cares if he is a damn bankrupt?” His voice broke. 

“Who cares?” Mike said. “I don’t care. Jake doesn’t 
care. Do you care?” 

“No,” Edna said. “Are you a bankrupt?” 

“Of course I am. You don’t care, do you, Bill?” 

Bill put his arm around Mike’s shoulder. 

“I wish to hell I was a bankrupt. I’d show those 

“They’re just English,” Mike said. “It never makes ^ 
any difference what the English say.” 


*9 6 the sun also rises 

“The dirty swine,” Bill said. “I’m going to clean 
them out.” 

“Bill,” Edna looked at me. “Please don’t go in again 
Bill. They’re so stupid.” 

“That’s it,” said Mil-e. “They’re stupid. I knew that 
was what it was.” 

1 “They can’t say things like that about Mike,” Bill 

“Do you know them?” I asked Mike. 

“No. I never saw them. They say they know me.” 

“I won’t stand it,” Bill said. 

“Come on. Let’s go over to the Suizo,” I said. 

“They’re a bunch of Edna’s friends from Biarritz” 
Bill said. 

“They’re simply stupid,” Edna said. 

“One of them’s Charley Blackman, from Chicago” 
Bill said. 

“I was never in Chicago,” Mike said. 

Edna started to laugh and could not stop. 

“ Take me away from here,” she said, “you bankrupts.” 

“What kind of a row was it?” I asked Edna. We 
were walking across the square to the Suizo. Bill was 

“I don’t know what happened, but some one had the 
police called to keep Mike out of the back room. There 
were some people that had known Mike at Cannes. 
What’s the matter with Mike?” 

“Probably he owes them money,” I said. “That’s 
what people usually get bitter about.” 

In front of the ticket-booths out in the square there 
were two lines of people waiting. They were sitting on 
chairs or crouched on the ground with blankets and news¬ 
papers around them. They were waiting for the wickets 
to open in the morning to buy tickets for the bull-fight. 


The night was clearing and the moon was out. Some of 
the people in the line were sleeping. 

At the Cafe Suizo we had just sat down and ordered 
Fundador when Robert Cohn came up. 

“Where’s Brett?” he asked. 

“I don’t know.” 

“She was with you.” 

“She must have gone to bed.” 

“She’s not.” 

“I don’t know where she is.” 

His face was sallow under the light. He was standing 

“Tell me where she is.” 

“Sit down,” I said. “I don’t know where she is.” 

“The hell you don’t!” 

“You can shut your face.” 

“Tell me where Brett is.” 

“I’ll not tell you a damn thing.” 

“You know where she is.” 

“If I did I wouldn’t tell you.” 

“Oh, go to hell, Cohn,” Mike called from the table. 
“Brett’s gone off with the bull-fighter chap. They’re ** 
on their honeymoon.” 

“You shut up.” 

“Oh, go to hell!” Mike said languidly. \ 

“Is that where she is?” Cohn turned to me. 

“Go to hell!” 

“She was with you. Is that where she is?” 

“Go to hell!” 

“ I’ll make you tell me” —he stepped fo rward—“you 

damned pimp.” " " --’ C 

"Tl^wu fig at Tim and he ducked. I saw his face duck 
sicfeways in the light. He hit me and I sat down on the 
pavement. As I started to get on my feet he hit me 


twice. I went down backward under a table. I tried to 
get up and felt I did not have any legs. I felt I must 
get on my feet and try and hit him. Mike helped me up. 
Some one poured a carafe of water on my head. Mike 
had an arm around me, and I found I was sitting on a 
chair. Mike was pulling at my ears. 

“I say, you were cold,” Mike said. 

“Where the hell were you?” 

“Oh, I was around.” 

“You didn’t want to mix in it?” 

“He knocked Mike down, too,” Edna said. 

“He didn’t knock me out,” Mike said. “I just lav 

“Does this happen every night at your fiestas?” Edna 
asked. “Wasn’t that Mr. Cohn?” 

“I’m all right,” I said. “My head’s a little wobbly.” 

There were several waiters and a crowd of people 
standing around. 

“Vaya !” said Mike. “Getaway. Goon.” 

The waiters moved the people away. 

“It was quite a thing to watch,” Edna said. “He must 
be a boxer.” 

“He is.” 

“I wish Bill had been here,” Edna said. “I’d like to 
have seen Bill knocked down, too. I’ve always wanted 
to see Bill knocked down. He’s so big.” 

was hoping he would knock down a waiter,” Mike 
Paid, “and get arrested. I’d like to see Mr. Robert Cohn 
in jail.” 

“No,” I said. 

“Oh, no,” said Edna. “You don’t mean that.” 

# “I do, though,” Mike said. “ I’m not one of these chaps 
likes being knocked about. I never play games, even.” 

Mike took a drink- 




How do you feel, )< 

“I never liked to hunt, you know. There was always 
the danger of having a horse fall on you 

“All right.” 

“You’re nice,” Edna said to Mike. “Are you really 
a bankrupt?” 

“I’m a tremendous bankrupt,” Mike said. “I owe 
money to everybody. Don’t you owe any money?” 

“Tons.” ^ 

“I owe everybody money,” Mike said. “I borrowecr 
a hundred pesetas from Montoya to-night.” 

“The hell you did,” I said. 

“I’ll pay it back,” Mike said. “I always pay every¬ 
thing back.” 

“That’s why you’re a bankrupt, isn’t it?” Edna said. 

I stood up. I had heard them talking from a long way 
away. It all seemed like some bad play. 

“I’m going over to the hotel,” I said. Then I heard 
them talking about me. 

“Is he all right?” Edna asked. 

“We’d better walk with him.” 

“I’m all right,” I said. “Don’t come. I’ll see you all, 

I walked away from the cafe. They were sitting at the 
table. I looked back at them and at the empty tables. 
There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his 
head in his hands. 

tAValking across the square to the hotel everything 
looked new and changed. I had never seen the trees 
before. I had never seen the flagpoles before, nor the 
front of the theatre. It was all different. I felt as I felt 
once coming home from an out-of-town football game, s 
I was carrying a suitcase with my football things in it, 
and I walked up the street from the station in the town 





^4-.^Lh g-d lived in all my life and it was all new^ [They were 
''^'raking the lawns and burning'leaves in the road, and I 
stopped for a long time and watched. It was all strange. 
Then I went on, and my feet seemed to be a long way 
off, and everything seemed to come from a long way off, 
and I could hear my feet walEng a great distance away. 
I had been Ecked in the head early in the game. It was 
like that crossing the square. It was like that going up 
.the stairs in the hotel. Going up the stairs took a long 
time,and I had the feelin g that I was ca rryin g my suit¬ 
case. 'There was a light in the room7~Biil came out and 
met me in the hall. 

“Say,” he said, “go up and see Cohn. He’s been in 
a jam, and he’s asEng for you.” 

“The hell with him.” 

“Go on. Go on up and see him.” 

I did not want to climb another flight of stairs. 
“What are you looEng at me that way for?” 

“I’m not looking at you. Go on up and see Cohn. 
He’s in bad shape.” 

“You were drunk a little while ago,” I said. 
ftJT’m drunk now,” Bill said. “But you go up and see 
Clohn. He wants to see you.” 

“All right,” I said. It was just a matter of climbing 
tore stairs. I went on up the stairs carrying my phan¬ 
tom suitcase. I walked down the hall to Cohn’s room. 
The door was shut and I knocked. 

“Who is it?” 


“Come in, Jake.” 

I opened the door and went in, and set down my suit- 
>se. There was no light in the room. Cohn was lying, 
face down, on the bed in the dark, 

“Hello, JakeT-~' 



“Don’t call me Jake.” 

I stood by the door. It was just like this that I had 
come home. Now it was a hot bath that I needed. A 
deep, hot bath, to lie back in. 

“Where’s the bathroom?” I asked. * 

Cohn was crying. There he was, fare dnwn on the bed. 4^ 
He had on a white polo shirt, the kind h?d 

c rying. 

WQrn^at Princeton. 

“Tin sorry, Jake. Please forgive me.” 

“Forgive you, hell.” 

“Please forgive me, Jake.” 

I did not say anything. I stood there by the door. 

“I was crazy. You must see how it w'as.” 

“Oh, that’s all right.” 

“I couldn’t stand it aoout Brett.” 

“You called me a pimp.” 

I did not care. I wanted a hot bath. I wanted a hot 
bath in deep water. 

“I know. Please don’t remember it. I was crazy.” 

“That’s all right.” 

He was crying. His voice was funny. He lay there in 
his white shirt on the bed in the dark. His polo shirt. 

“I’m going away in the morning.” 

He was crying without making any noise. 

just ronlHn-’t stand it about been 

through hell, Jake. It’s been simply hell. When I met 
her down here Brett treated me as though I were a per- $ 
feet stranger. I just couldn’t stand it. We lived together 
at San Sebastian. I suppose you know it. I can't stand 

He lay there op^S^ ‘ Co7T" " 

“Well,” I 

“You wefe odIv friend I had,.&nd I loved Brett 





“Well,” I said, “so long.” 

“I guess it isn’t any use,” he said. “I guess it isn’t 
any damn use.” 


“Everything. Please say you forgive me, Jake.” 
p “Sure,” I said. “It’s all right.” 

V Cilelt so terribly. I’ve been through such hell, Jake. 
Now"everything's gone. Everything? 7 ——- 

"Well,” 1 said, “so long, i’vtf got to go.” 

He rolled over, sat on the edge of the bed, and then 
stood up. 

“So long, Jake,” he said. “You’ll shake hands, won’t 

“Sure. Why not?” 

We shook hands. In the dark I could not see his face 
very well. 

“Well,” I said, “see you in the morning.” 

“I’m going away in the morning.” 

“Oh, yes,” I said. 

I went out. Cohn was standing in the door of the 

“Are you all right, Jake?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes,” I said. “I’m all right.” 

I could not find the bathroom. After a while I found 
It. There was a deep stone tub. I turned on the taps 
and the water would not run. I sat down on the edge 
of the bath-tub. When I got up to go I found I had taken 
off my shoes. I hunted for them and found them and 
carried them down-stairs. I found my room and went 
inside and undressed and got into bed. 

I woke with a headache and the noise of the bands 
going by in the street. I remembered I had promised 
to take Bill’s friend Edna to see the bulls go through 



the street and into the ring. I dressed and went down¬ 
stairs and out into the cold early morning. People were 
crossing the square, hurrying toward the bull-ring. 
Across the square were the two lines of men in front of 
the ticket-booths. They were still waiting for the tickets 
to go on sale at seven o’clock. I hurried across the street 
to the cafe. The waiter told me that my friends had 
been there and gone. 

“How many were they?” 

“Two gentlemen and a lady.” 

That was all right. Bill and Mike were with Edna. 
She had been afraid last night they would pass out. 
That was why I was to be sure to take her. I drank the 
coffee and hurried with the other people toward the 
bull-ring. I was not groggy now. There was only a bad 
headache. Everything looked sharp and clear, and the 
town smelt of the early morning. 

The stretch of ground from the edge of the town to 
the bull-ring was muddy. There was a crowd all along 
the fence that led to the ring, and the outside balconies 
and the top of the bull-ring were solid with people. I 
heard the rocket and I knew I could not get into the 
ring in time to see the bulls come in, so I shoved through 
the crowd to the fence. I was pushed close against the 
planks of the fence. Between the two fences of the run¬ 
way the police were clearing the crowd along. They 
walked or trotted on into the bull-ring. Then people 
commenced to come running. A drunk slipped and fell. 
Two policemen grabbed him and rushed him over to 
the fence. The crowd were running fast now. There 
was a great shout from the crowd, and putting my head 
through between the boards I saw the bulls just coming 
out of the street into the long running pen. They were 
going fast and gaining on the crowd. Just then another 



drunk started out from the fence with a blouse in his 
hands. He wanted to do capework with the bulls. The 
two policemen tore out, collared him, one hit him with 
a club, and they dragged him against the fence and stood 
flattened out against the fence as the last of the crowd 
and the bulls went by. There were so many people run¬ 
ning ahead of the bulls that the mass thickened and 
slowed up going through the gate into the ring, and as 
the bulls passed, galloping together, heavy, muddy- 
sided, horns swinging, one shot ahead, caught a man in 
the running crowd in the back and lifted him in the air. 
Both the man's arms were by his sides, his head went 
back as the horn went in, and the bull lifted him and 
then dropped him. The bull picked another man run¬ 
ning in front, but the man disappeared into the crowd, 
and the crowd was through the gate and into the ring 
with the bulls behind them. The red door of the ring 
went shut, the crowd on the outside balconies of the 
bull-ring were pressing through to the inside, there was 
a shout, then another shout. 

The man who had been gored lay face down in the 
trampled mud. People climbed over the fence, and I 
could not see the man because the crowd was so thick 
around him. From inside the ring came the shouts. 
Each shout meant a charge by some bull into the crowd. 
You could tell by the degree of intensity in the shout 
how bad a thing it was that was happening. Then the 
rocket went up that meant the steers had gotten the 
bulls out of the ring and into the corrals. I left the fence 
and started back toward the town. 

Back in the town I went to the cafe to have a second 
coffee and some buttered toast. The waiters were sweep¬ 
ing out the cafe and mopping off the tables. One came 
over and took my order 


“ Anything happen at the encierro?” 

“I didn’t see it all. One man was badly cogido.” 


“Here.” I put one hand on the small of my back 
and the other on my chest, where it looked as though 
the horn must have come through. The waiter nodded 
his head and swept the crumbs from the table with his 


£m for sport. All for £ 


He went away and came back with the long-handled 
coffee and milk pots. He poured the milk and coffee. 
It came out of the long spouts in two streams into the 
big cup. The waiter nodded his head. 

“Badly cogido through the back,” he said. He put 
the pots down on the table and sat down in the chair 
at the table. “A big horn wound. All for fun. Just for 
Ian^.„WhaJLdo jou t hink of that?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“ That’s it. All for fun. Fun, you understand .” 
“You’re not an aficionado? 

“Me? What are bulls? Animals. Brute animals.’ 
He stood up and put his hand on the small of his back. 
“Right through the back. A cornada right through the 
back. For fun—you understand.” 

He shook his head and walked away, carrying the 
coffee-pots. Two men were going by in the street. The 
waiter shouted to them. They were grave-looking. One 
shook his head. “Muerto!” he called. 

The waiter nodded his head. The two men went on. 
They were on some errand. The waiter came over to 
my table. 

“Von hear? Muerto. Dead. He’s dead. With a horn 


k 2 °° 

“It’s bad.” 

“Not for me,” the waiter said. “No fun in that for 

_ >) 

Later in the day we learned that the man who was 
killed was named Vicente Girones, and came from near 
Tafalla. The next day in the paper we read that he was 
twenty-eight years old, and had a farm, a wife, and two 
children. He had continued to come to the fiesta each 
year after he was married. The next day his wife came 
in from Tafalla to be with the body, and the day after 
there was a service in the chapel of San Fermin, and the 
coffin was carried to the railway-station by members of 
the dancing and drinking society of Tafalla. The drums 
marched ahead, and there was music on the fifes, and 
behind the men who carried the coffin walked the wife 
and two children. . . . Behind them marched all the 
members of the dancing and drinking societies of Pam¬ 
plona, Estella, Tafalla, and Sanguesa who could stay 
over for the funeral. The coffin was loaded into the bag- 
gage-car of the train, and the widow and the two chil¬ 
dren rode, sitting, all three together, in an open third- 
class railway-carriage. The train started with a jerk, and 
then ran smoothly, going down grade around the edge 
of the plateau and out into the fields of grain that blew 
in the wind on the plain on the way to Tafalla. 
l/The bull who killed Vicente Girones was named Boca- 
. nSgra, was Number 118 of the bull-breeding establish¬ 
ment of Sanchez Taberno, and was killed by Pedro 
Romero as the third bull of that same afternoon. His 
ear was cut by popular acclamation and given to Pedro 
Romero, who, in turn, gave it to Brett, who wrapped it 
in a handkerchief belonging to myself, and left both 
ear and handkerchief, along with a number of Muratti 
cigarette-stubs, shoved far back in the drawer of the 



bed-table that stood beside her bed in the Hotel Mon¬ 
toya, in Pamplona. 53 

Back in the hotel, the night watchman was sitting or 
a bench inside the door. He had been there all night 
and was very sleepy. He stood up as I came in. Three 
of the waitresses came in at the same time. They had 
been to the morning show at the bull-ring. They went 
up-stairs laughing. I followed them up-stairs and went 
into my room. I took off my shoes and lay down on 
the bed. The window was open onto the balcony and 
the sunlight was bright in the room. I did not feel 
sleepy. It must have been half past three o’clock when 
I had gone to bed and the bands had waked me at six. 
My jaw was sore on both sides. I felt it with my thumb 
and fingers. That damn Cohn. He should have hit 
somebody the first time he was insulted, and then gone 
away. He was so sure that Brett loved him. He was 
going to stay, and true love would conquer all. Some one 
knocked on the door. 

“Come in.” 

It was Bill and Mike. They sat down on the bed. 

“Some encierro,” Bill said. “Some encierro.” 

“I say, weren’t you there?” Mike asked. “Ring for 
some beer, Bill.” 

“What a morning!” Bill said. He mopped off his face. 
“My God ! what a morning! And here’s old Jake. Old 
Jake, the human punching-bag.” ------- 

“ rr What happened inside?” 

“Good God!” Bill said, “what happened, Mike?” 

“There were these bulls coming in,” Mike said. “Just 
ahead of them was the crowd, and some chap tripped 
and brought the whole lot of them down.” 

“And the bulls all came in right over them,” Bill said. 



“I heard them yell.” 

“That was Edna,” Bill said. 

“Chaps kept coming out and waving their shirts.” ^ 

“ One bun "went alongThe barreraTand hookedevery- 
body over.” 

“They took about twenty chaps to the infirmary,” 
Mike said. 

“What a morning!” Bill said. “The damn police kept 
arresting chaps that wanted to go and commit suicide 
with the bulls.” 

“The steers took them in, in the end,” Mike said. 

“It took about an hour.” 

“It was really about a quarter of an hour,” Mike ob¬ 

“Oh, go to hell,” Bill said. “You’ve been in the war. 
It was two hours and a half for me.” 

“Where’s that beer?” Mike asked. 

“What did you do with the lovely Edna?” 

“We took her home just now. She’s gone to bed.” 

“How did she like it?” 

“Fine. We told her it was just like that every morn- 

“She was impressed,” Mike said. w 

“She wanted us to go down in the ring, too^ Bill said. 
“She likes action.” 

“I said it wouldn’t be fair to my creditors,” Mike 

“What a morning,” Bill said. “And what a night!” 

“How’s your jaw, Jake?” Mike asked. 

“Sore,” I said. 

Bill laughed. 

“Why didn’t you hit him with a chair?” 

“You can talk,” Mike said. “He’d have knocked you 
out, too, I never saw him hit me. I rather think I saw 



him just before, and then quite suddenly I was sitting 
down in the street, and Jake was lying under a table.” 

“Where did he go afterward?” I asked. 

“Here she is,” Mike said. “Here’s the beautiful lady 
with the beer.” 

The chambermaid put the tray with the beer-bottles 
and glasses down on the table. 

“Now bring up three more bottles,” Mike said. 

“Where did Cohn go after he hit me?” I asked Bill. 

“Don’t you know about that?” Mike was opening a 
beer-bottle. He poured the beer into one of the glasses, 
holding the glass close to the bottle. 

“Really?” Bill asked. 

“Why he went in and found Brett and the bull-fighter 
chap in the bull-fighter’s room, and then he massacred 
the poor, bloody bull-fighter.” 



“What a night!” Bill said. 

“He nearly killed the poor, bloody bull-fighter. Then 
Cohn wanted to take Brett away. Wanted to make an 
honest woman of her, I imagine. Damned touching 

He took a long drink of the beer. 

“He is an ass.” 

‘What happened?” 

“Brett gave him what for. She told him off. I thinkTL. 

she was rather good.” 

“I’ll bet she was,” Bill said. 

“Then Cohn broke down and cried, and wanted to ^ 
shake hands with the bull-fighter fellow. He wanted to 
shake hands with Brett, too.” 

“I know. He shook hands with me.” 

“Did he? Well, they weren’t having any of it. The 



bull-fighter fellow was rather good. He didn’t say much, 
but he kept getting up and getting knocked down again, 
Cohn couldn't knock him out. It must have been 
damned funny." 

“Where did you hear all this?" 

“ Brett. I saw her this morning." 

“What happened finally?" 

“It seems the bull-fighter fellow was sitting on the 
bed. He’d been knocked down about fifteen times, and 
he wanted to fight some more. Brett held him and 
wouldn’t let him get up. He was weak, but Brett 
couldn’t hold him, and he got up. Then Cohn said he 
wouldn’t hit him again. Said he couldn’t do it. Said it 
Would be wicked. So the bull-fighter chap sort of rather 
staggered over to him. Cohn went back against the wall. 

“‘So you won’t hit me?’ 

“‘No,’ said Cohn. ‘I’d be ashamed to.’ 

“So the bull-fighter fellow hit him just as hard as he 
could in the face, and then sat down on the floor. He 
couldn’t get up, Brett said. Cohn wanted to pick him 
up and carry him to the bed. He said if Cohn helped 
him he’d kill him, and he’d kill him anyway this morning 
if Cohn wasn’t out of town. Cohn was crying, and Brett 
had told him off, and he wanted to shake hands. I’ve 
told you that before." 

“Tell the rest," Bill said. 

“It seems the bull-fighter chap was sitting on th* 
floor. He was waiting to get strength enougli co get 
up and hit Cohn again. Brett wasn’t having any shaking 
hands, and Cohn was crying and telling her how much 
he loved her, and she was telling him not to be a ruddy 
ass. Then Cchn leaned down to shake hands with the 
bull-fighter fellow. No hard feelings, you know. All for 
forgiveness. And the bull-fighter chap hit him in th* 
face again." 



“That’s quite a kid,” Bill said. 

“He ruined Cohn,” Mike said. “You know I don’t 
think Cohn will ever want to knock people about again.” 

“When did you see Brett?” 

“This morning. She came in to get some things. She’s 
looking after this Romero lad.” 

He poured out another bottle of beer. 

“B ut she loves lookin &^fter 
p eople. T hat’s how. , we came Jto ^o off together. Sh e 

^^Es_lootang^after me. 

“I know,” I said. 

“I’m rather drunk,” Mike said. “I think I’ll stay 
rather drunk. This is all awfully amusing, but it’s not 
too pleasant. It’s not too pleasant for me.” 

He drank off the beer. 

“I gave Brett what for, you know. I said if she would 
go about with Jews and bull-fighters and such people, 
she must expect trouble.” He leaned forward. “I say, 
Jake, do you mind if I drink that bottle of yours? She’ll 
bring you another one.” 

“Please,” I said. “I wasn’t drinking it, anyway.” 

Mike started to open the bottle. “Would you mind 
opening it?” I pressed up the wire fastener and poured 
it for him. 

“You know,” Mike went on, “Brett was rather good. 
She’s always rather good. I gave her a fearful hiding 
about Jews and bull-fighters, and all those sort of people, 
and do you know what she said: ‘Yes. I’ve had such a 
hell of a happy life with the British aristocracy!’” 

He took a drink. 

“That was rather good. Ashley, chap she got the 
title from, was a sailor, you know. Ninth baronet. When 
he came home he wouldn’t sleep in a bed. Always made 
Bret, sleep on the floor. Finally, when he got really 
bad, he used to tell her he’d kill her. Always slept with 




A. a loaded service revolver. Brett used to take the shells 
^ out when he’d gone to sleep. She hasn’t had an abso- 
ut l utely happy life, Brett. PamnecT ^amp j tnr> 
i j^FtEngsloT^ 

He stood" up. His hand was shaky. 

“I’m going in the room. Try and get a little sleep.” 

He smiled. 

“We go too long without sleep in these hestas. I’m 
going to start now and get plenty of sleep. Damn bad 
thing not to get sleep. Makes you frightfully nervy.” 

“We’ll see you at noon at the Iruna,” Bill said. 

Mike went out the door. We heard him in the next 

He rang the bell and the chambermaid came and 
knocked at the door. 

“Bring up half a dozen bottles of beer and a bottle 
of Fundador,” Mike told her. 

“Si, Senorito.” 

“I’m going to bed,” Bill said. “Poor old Mike. I had 
a hell of a row about him last night.” 

“Where? At that Milano place?” 

“Yes. There was a fellow there that had helped pay 
Brett and Mike out of Cannes, once. He was damned 

“I know the story.” 

(S, “I didn’t. Nobody ought to have a right to say things 
Tibout Mike.” 

“That’s what makes it bad.” 

“ They oughtn’t to have any right. I wish to hell 
they didn’t have any right. I’m going to bed.” 

“Was anybody killed in the ring?” 

“I don’t think so. Just badly hurt.” 

“A man was killed outside in the runway.” 

“Was there?” said Bill. 


At noon we were all at the cafe. It was crowded. We 
were eating shrimps and drinking beer. The town was 
crowded. Every street was full. Big motor-cars from 
Biarritz and San Sebastian kept driving up and park¬ 
ing around the square. They brought people for the 
bull-fight. Sight-seeing cars came up, too. There was 
one with twenty-five Englishwomen in it. They sat in 
the big, white car and looked through their glasses at 
the fiesta. The dancers were all quite drunk. It was 
the last day of the fiesta. 

The fiesta was solid and unbroken, but the motor¬ 
cars and tourist-cars made little islands of onlookers. 
When the cars emptied, the onlookers were absorbed into 
the crowd. You did not see them again except as sport 
clothes, odd-looking at a table among the closely packed 
peasants in black smocks. The fiesta absorbed even the 
Biarritz English so that you did not see them unless you 
passed close to a table. All the time there w as m u si cjn 
tV»p. Qtrppt The drn m s- kent on pounding and the pip es ^ 
were going. Inside the cafes men with their hands grip¬ 
ping the table, or on each other’s shoulders, were singing 
the hard-voiced singing. 

“Here comes Brett,” Bill said. 

I looked and saw her coming through the crowd in 
the square, walking, her head up, as though the fiesta 
were being staged in her honor, and she found it pleasant 
and amusing. • m 

“Hello, you chaps!” she said. “I say, I have a thirst.” 

“Get another big beer,” Bill said to the waiter. 





“Is Cohn gone?” Brett asked. 

“Yes,” Bill said. “He hired a car.” 

The beer came.* Brett started to lift the glass mug | 
and her hand shook. She saw it and smiled, and leaned ’ 
forward and took a long sip. 

“Good beer.” 

“Very good,” I said. I was nervous about Mike. I 
did not think he had slept. He must have been drink¬ 
ing all the time, but he seemed to be under control. 

“I heard Cohn had hurt you, Jake,” Brett said. 

“No. Knocked me out. That was all.” 

“I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero,” Brett said. “He 
hurt him most badly.” 

“How is he?” 

“He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room.” 

“Does he look badly?” 

“Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to * 
pop out and see you chaps for a minute.” 

“Is he going to fight?” 

“Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind.” 

“How’s your boy friend?” Mike asked. He had not 
listened to anything that Brett had said. 
i/\ “Brett's got a bull-fighter,” he said. “She had a Jew 
named Cohn, but he turned out badly.” 

Brett stood up. 

“Iam not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, 

“How's your boy friend?” 

“Damned well,” Brett said. “Watch him this after¬ 
noon.” I 

“Brett's got a bull-fighter,” Mike said. “A beautiful, 
bloody bull-fighter.” 

“Would you mind walking over with me? I want to 
talk to you, Jake.” 

“Tell him all about your bull-fighter,” Mike said. 



“Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!” He tipped the 
table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went 
over in a crash. 

“Come on,” Brett said. “Let’s get out of this.” 

In the crowd crossing the square I said: “How is it?” 

“I’m not going to see him after lunch until the fight. 
H is people come in and drp gg hi™ jurgry 


Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out 
and the day was bright. 

“I fed altogether changed,” Brett said. “Yo u’ve no < 
i dea, Jak eT” 

“Anything you want me to do?” 

“No, just go to the fight with me.” 

“We’ll see you at lunch?” 

“No. I’m eating with him.” 

We were standing under the arcade at the door of 
the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting 
them up under the arcade. 

“Want to take a turn out to the park?” Brett 
asked. “I don’t want to go up yet. I fancy he’s sleep¬ 

We walked along past the theatre and out of the 
square and along through the barracks of the fair, mov¬ 
ing with the crowd between the lines of booths. We 
came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sara- 
sate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the 
fashionably dressed people. They were making the 
turn at the upper end of the park. 

“Don’t let’s go there,” Brett said. “I don’t want 
staring at just now ” 

We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after 
the rain and the clouds from the sea. 

“I hope the wind goes down,” Brett said. “It’s very 
bad for him.” 




“So do I ” 

“He says the bulls are all right. ,, 

“They’re good.” 

“Is that San Fermin’s?” 

Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. 

“Yes. Where the show started on Sunday.” 

“Let’s go in. Do you mind ? I’d rather like to pray a 
little for him or something.” 

We went in through the heavy leather door that 
moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people 
were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted 
themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the 
long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen 
beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead. 

_ Come on,” she w hispered throatily- “LeFs^gpf n n< 

o f hereT^Makes^me damned nervou s.” 

Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked 
up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not 
been much of a success. 

“Don’t know why I get so nervy in church,” Brett 
said. “Never does me any good.” 

We walked along. rX : , 

“I’m damned bad for a religious atmospheric,” Brett 
said. “I’ve the wrong type of face. 

“You know,” Brett said, “I’m not worried about him 
at all. I just feel happy about him.” 


“I wish the wind would drop, though.” 

“It’s liable to go dowm by five o’clock.” 

“Let’s hope.” 

“You might pray,” I laughed. 

“Ngyer doesme^any-go od. I’v e never gotten any¬ 
thing I prayeTlor. Have you?” 



217 - 

“Oh, rot,” said Brett. “Maybe it works for some 
people, though. You don’t look very religious, Jake.’v^h 

“ Em pretty religious. ”^ IrK* ^__ 

“OK, rot,” said Brett. “Don’t start ^proselyting' 
to-day. To-day’s going to be bad enough as^Hs*^^ \ 

It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, 
careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We 
were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables 
were set now, and already several w~ere filled with peo¬ 
ple eating. 

“Do look after Mike,” Brett said. “Don’t let him 
get too bad.” 

“Your frients haff gone up-stairs,” the German maitre 
d’hotel said L English. He was a continual eaves¬ 
dropper. Brett turned to him: 

“Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to 

“No, ma'am.” 

“Good,” said Brett. 

“Save us a table for three,” I said to the German. 
He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. 

“Iss madam eating here?” 

“No,” Brett said. 

“Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff.” 

“Don’t talk to him,” Brett said, “Mike must have 
been in bad shape,” she said on the stairs. We passed 
Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. 

“I’ll see you at the cafe,” Brett said. “Thank you, 
so much, Jake.” 

We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She 
went straight down the hall and into Romero’s room. 
She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went 
in, and closed it behind her. 

I stood in front of the door of Mike’s room and knocked. 

2 l8 


There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. 
Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags 
were opened and clothing was strewn around. There 
were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the 
bed looking like a death mask of him self. He opened 
his eyes and looked at me. 

“ijello, Jake,” he sai d very slowly. “I’m pettin g a 
lit tlesIeepT " I r ve wanfecTa lit tie sleep f or a long time.” 

“Let me cover you over.” — 

“No. I’m quite warm.” 

“Don’t go. I have n’t got ten to sleep yet.” 

“You’ll sleep, Mike. Don’t worry, boy.” 

“Brett’s got a bull-fighter,” Mike said. “But her 
Jew has gone away.” 

He turned his head and looked a: me. 

“Damned good thing, what?” 

“Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some 

“I’m just start ing. I’m go ing to get a lit tie sleep.” 

He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned 
the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the 

“See Mike?” 


“Let’s go and eat.” 

“I won’t eat down-stairs with that German head 
waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike 

“He was snotty to us, too.” 

“Let’s go out and eat in the town.” 

We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a 
girl coming up with a covered tray. 

“There goes Brett’s lunch,” Bill said. 

“And the kid’s,” I said. 



Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German 
head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He 
was being polite. 

“I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen/’ he said. 

“Go sit at it,” Bill said. We went on out across the 

We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square. 
They were all men eating in the restaurant. It was full 
of smoke and drinking and singing. The food was good 
and so was the wine. We did not talk much. Afterward 
we went to the cafe and watched the fiesta come to the 
boiling-point. Brett came over soon after lunch. She 
said she had looked in the room and that Mike was asleep. 

When the fiesta boiled over and toward the bull-ring 
we went with the crowd. Brett sat at the ringside be¬ 
tween Bill and me. Directly below us was the callejon, 
the passageway between the stands and the red fence 
of the barrera. Behind us the concrete stands filled 
solidly. Out in front, beyond the red fence, the sand of 
the ring was smooth-rolled and yellow. It looked a little 
heavy from the rain, but it was dry in the sun and firm 
and smooth. The sword-handlers and bull-ring servants 
came down the c llejon carrying on their shoulders the 
wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas. They were 
bloodstained and compactly folded and packed in the 
baskets. The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather 
sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the sheaf of 
swords showed as the leather case leaned against the 
fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the 
muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and 
give the matador something to hold. Brett watched it 
all. Shejjvas^^ details. 

“He^hiTname stencilled on all the capes and mule¬ 
tas,” she said. “Why do they call them muletas?” 



“1 don’t know.” 

“I wonder if they ever launder them.” 

“I don’t think so. It might spoil the color.” 

* “The blood must stiffen them,” Bill said. 

Funny,” Brett said. “How one doesn’t mind the 

Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword- 
handlers arranged everything. All the seats were full. 
Above-, all the boxes were full. There was not an empty 
seat except in the President’s box. When he came in 
the fight would start. Across the smooth sand, in the 
high doorway that led into the corrals, the bull-fighters 
were standing, their arms furled in their capes, talking, 
waiting for the signal to march in across the arena. 
Brett was watching them with the glasses. 

“Here, would you like to look?” 

I looked through the glasses and saw the three mata-^ 
dors. Romero was in the centre, Belmonte on his left, 
Marcial on his right. Back of them were their people, 
and behind the banderilleros, back in the passageway 
and in the open space of the corral I saw, the picadors. 
Romero was wearing a black suit. His tricorner,ed hat 
was low down over his eyes. I could not see his face 
clearly under the hat, but it looked badly marked. He 
was looking straight ahead. Marcial was smoking a 
cigarette guardedly, holding it in his hand. Belmonte 
looked ahead, his face wan and yellow, his long wolf jaw 
out. He was looking at nothing. Neither he nor Ro- v 
mero seemed to have anything in common with the 
others. They were all alone. The President came in; 
there was handclapping above us in the grand stand, 
and I handed the glasses to Brett. There was applause. 
The music started. Brett looked through the glasses. 

“Here, take them,” she said. 


Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero. 
Marcial straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, 
looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms 
swinging, the three matadors walked out. Behind them 
came all the procession, opening out, all striding in 
step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms 
swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics ris¬ 
ing like lances. Behind all came the two trains of mules 
and the bull-ring servants. The matadors bowed, hold¬ 
ing their hats on, before the President’s box, and then 
came over to the barrera below us. Pedro Romero took 
off his heavy gold-brocaded cape and handed it over the 
fence to his sword-handler. He said something to the 
sword-handler. Close below us we saw Romero’s lips 
were puffed, both eyes were discolored. His face was 
discolored and swollen. The sword-handler took the 
cape, looked up at Brett, and came over to us and 
handed up the cape. 

“Spread it out in front of you,” I said. 

Brett leaned forward. The cape was heavy and 
smoothly stiff with gold. The sword-handler looked 
back, shook his head, and said something. A man beside 
me leaned over toward Brett. 

“He doesn’t want you to spread it,” he said. “You 
should fold it and keep it in your lap.” 

Brett folded the heavy cape. 

Romero did not look up at us. He was speaking to 
Belmonte. £Jdnidntc> had sent his formal cape over to 
some friendsT'''Hclooked across at them and smiled, his 
wolf s mile that was only with^he -p™ 1 ^ Romero leaned 
over the barrera and asked for the water-jug. The sword- 
handler brought it and Romero poured water over the 
percale of his fighting-cape, and then scuffed the lower 
folds in the sand with his slippered foot. 



“What’s that for?” Brett asked. 

“To give it weight in the wind.” 

“His face looks bad,” Bill said. 

“He feels very badly,” Brett said. “He should be in 

The first bull was Belmonte’s. Belmonte was very 
good. But because he got thirty thousand pesetas and 
people had stayed in line all night to buy tickets to see 
him, the crowd demanded that he should be more than 
very good. Belmonte’s great attraction is working close 
to the bull. In bull-fighting they speak of the terrain of 
the bull and the terrain of the bull-fighter. As long as a 
bull-fighter stays in his own terrain he is comparatively 
safe. Each ti me he pntpr* into the t^ninffo 1 bu ll 
he is in great dange r. Belmonte,Tn his best days, worked 
always in the terrain of the bull. This way he gave the 
sensation of coming tragedy. People went to the corrida 
to see Belmonte, to be given tragic sensations, and per¬ 
haps to see the death of Belmonte. Fifteen years ago 
they said if you wanted to see Belmonte you should go 
quickly, while he was still alive. Since then he has 
killed more than a thousand bulls. When he retired the 
legend grew up about how his bull-fighting had been, 
and when he came out of retirement the public were dis¬ 
appointed because no real man could work as close to 
the bulls as Belmonte was supposed to have done not, 
of course, even Belmonte. 

Also Belmonte imposed conditions and insisted that 
his bulls should not be too large, nor too dangerously 
armed with horns, and so the element that was neces¬ 
sary to give the sensation of tragedy was not there, and 
the public, who wanted three times as much from Bel¬ 
monte, who was sick with a fistula, as Belmonte had 
ever been able to give, felt defrauded and cheated, and 



Belmonte’s jaw came further out in contempt, and his 
face turned yellower, and he moved with greater diffi¬ 
culty as his pain increased, and finally the crowd were 
actively against him, and he was utterly contemptuous 
and indifferent. He had meant to have a great after¬ 
noon, and instead it was an afternoon of sneers, shouted 
insults, and finally a volley of cushions and pieces of 
bread and vegetables, thrown down at him in the plaza 
where he had had his greatest triumphs. jaw pnly 
went furt her ouL - Sometimes he turned to smile that 
toothed, long-jawed, lipless smile when he was called 
something particularly insulting, and always the pain 
that any movement produced grew stronger and stronger, 
until finally his yellow face was parchment color, and 
after his second bull was dead and the throwing of bread 
and cushions was over, after he had saluted the Presi¬ 
dent with the same wolf-jawed smile and contemptuous 
eyes, and handed his sword over the barrera to be wiped, 
and put back in its case, he passed through into the 
callejon and leaned on the barrera below us, his head on 
his arms, not seeing, not hearing anything, only going 
through his pain. When he looked up, finally, he asked 
for a drink of water. He swallowed a little, rinsed his 
mouth, spat the water, took his cape, and went back 
into the ring. 

Because they were against Belmonte the public were 
for Romero. From the moment he left the barrera and 
went toward the bull they applauded him. Belmonte 
watched Romero, too, watched him always without 
seeming to. He paid no attention to Marcial. Marcial 
was the sort of thing he knew all about. He had come 
out of retirement to compete with Marcial, knowing it 
was a competition gained in advance. He had expected 
to compete with Marcial and the other stars of the de- 


cadence of bull-fighting, and he knew that the sincerity 
of his own bull-fighting would be so set off by the false 
esthetics of the bull-fighters of the decadent period that 
he would only have to be in the ring. His return from 
retirement had been spoiled by Romero. Romero did 
’ways, smoothly, calmly, and beautifully, what he, 

TJelmonte, could only bring himself to do now some¬ 
times. The crowd felt it, even the people from Biarritz, 
even the American ambassador saw it, finally. It was 
a competition that Belmonte would not enter because 
it would lead only to a bad horn wound or death. Bel¬ 
monte was no longer well enough. He no longer had his 
greatest moments in the bull-ring. He was not sure that 
there were any great moments. Things were not the 
same and now life only came in flashes. He had flashes 
of the old greatness with his bulls, but they were not of 
value because he had discounted them in advance when 
he had picked the bulls out for their safety, getting out 
of a motor and leaning on a fence, looking over at the 
herd on the ranch of his friend the bull-breeder. So he 
had two small, manageable bulls without much horns, 
and when he felt the greatness again coming, just a little 
of it through the pain that was always with him, it had 
been discounted and sold in advance, and it did not 
give him a good feeling. It was the greatness, but it did 
not make bull-fighting wonderful to him any more. 

^ Pedro Romero had th e greatn ess. He loved hnlUfight - 
ing, and I think he loved the 5uIIs7and I think he loved 
"BreTT. Everything of whichTuTcould control the local- 
^ity he did in front of her all that afternoon. Never once 
dicHie look~uprHe made it stronger that way, and did 
it for himself, too, as well as for her. Because he did 
not look up to ask if it pleased he did it alrtor himself 



W , top. Bn t^ he diH not do it for her at any loss toj^ 
himself. He gained by it all throug h the afternoon . 

His first'was dlrectlyTjelow us. The three mata¬ 
dors take the bull in turn after each charge he makes 
at a picador. Belmonte was the first. Marcial was the ! 
second. Then came Romero. The three of them were 
standing at the left of the horse. The picador, his hat 
down over his eyes, the shaft of his pic angling sharpie 
toward the bull, kicked in the spurs and held them and 
with the reins in his left hand walked the horse forward 
toward the bull. The bull was watching. Seemingly he 
watched the white horse, but really he watched the tri¬ 
angular steel point of the pic. Romero, watching, saw 
the bull start to turn his head. He did not want to 
charge. Romero flicked his cape so the color caught 
the bull’s eye. The bull charged with the reflex, charged, 
and found not the flash of color but a white horse, and a 
man leaned far over the horse, shot the steel point of 
the long hickory shaft into the hump of muscle on the 
bull’s shoulder, and pulled his horse sideways as he 
pivoted on the pic, making a wound, enforcing the iron 
into the bull’s shoulder, making him bleed for Belmonte. 

The bull did not insist under the iron. He did not 
really want to get at the horse. He turned and the 
group broke apart and Romero was taking him out with 
his cape. He took him out softly and smoothly, and 
then stopped and, standing squarely in front of the bull, 
offered him the cape. The bull’s tail went up and he 
charged, and Romero moved his arms ahead of the bull, 
wheeling, his feet firmed. The dampened, mud-weighted 
cape swung open and full as a sail fills, and Romero 
pivoted with it just ahead of the bull. At the end of the 
pass they were facing each other again. Romero smiled. 
The bull wanted it again, and Romero’s cape filled again, 



this time on the other side.^feach time he let the bull 
v pass so close that the man and the bull and the cape 
^Hhat filled and pivoted ahead of the bull were all one 
sharply etched mass,Jlt was all so slow and so controlled. 
It was as though he were rocking the bull to sleep. He 
made four veronica^ like that, and finished with a half- 
veronica that turned his back on the bull and came 
away toward the applause, his hand on his hip, his cape 
on his arm, and the bull watching his back going away. 

In his own bulls he was perfect. His first bull did not 
see well. After the first two passes with the cape Ro¬ 
mero knew exactly how bad the vision was impaired. 
He worked accordingly. Itjwas not brilliant hull-fig ht¬ 
ing. It was only perfect bull-fi ghting. The crowd wanted 
the bull changed. They made a great row. Nothing 
very fine could happen with a bull that could not see 
the lures, but the President would not order him re¬ 

“Why don’t they change him? ,, Brett asked. 
“They’ve paid for him. They don’t want to lose their 

“It’s hardly fair to Romero.” 

“Watch how he handles a bull that can’t see the 

“It’s the sort of thing I don’t like to see.” 

It was not nice to watch if you cared anything about 
the person who was doing it. With the bull who could 
not see the colors of the capes, or the scarlet flannel of 
the muleta, Romero had to make the bull consent with 
his body. He had to get so close that the bull saw his 
body, and would start for it, and then shift the bull’s 
charge to the flannel and finish out the pass in the classic 
manner. The Biarritz crowd did not like it. They 
thought Romero was afraid, and that was why he gave 



that little sidestep each time as he transferred the bull’s 
charge from his own body to the flannel. They pre¬ 
ferred Belmonte’s imitation of himself or Marcial’s imi¬ 
tation of Belmonte. There were three of them in the 
row behind us. 

“What’s he afraid of the bull for? The bull’s so dumb 
he only goes after the cloth.” 

“He’s just a young bull-fighter. He hasn’t learned 
it yet.” 

“But I thought he was fine with the cape before.” 

“Probably he’s nervous now.” 

Out in the centre of the ring, all alone, Romero was 
going on with the same thing, getting so close that the 
bull could see him plainly, offering the body, offering it 
again a little closer, the bull watching dully, then so 
close that the bull thought he had him, offering again 
and finally drawing the charge and then, just before the 
horns came, giving the bull the red cloth to follow with 
that little, almost imperceptible, jerk that so offended 
the critical judgment of the Biarritz bull-fight experts. 

“He’s going to kill now,” I said to Brett. “The bull’s 
still strong. He wouldn’t wear himself out.” 

Out in the centre of the ring Romero profiled in front 
of the bull, drew the sword out from the folds of the 
muleta, rose on his toes, and sighted along the blade. 
The bull charged as Romero charged. Romero’s left 
hand dropped the muleta over the bull’s muzzle to 
blind him, his left shoulder went forward between the 
horns as the sword went in, and for just an instant he 
and the bull were one, Romero way out over the bull, 
the right arm extended high up to where the hilt of the 
sword had gone in between the bull’s shoulders. Then 
the figure was broken. There was a little jolt as Romero 
came clear, and then he was standing, one hand up, 



facing the bull, his shirt ripped out from under his 
sleeve, the white blowing in the wind, and the bull, the 
red sword hilt tight between his shoulders, his head 
going down and his legs settling. 

“There he goes,” Bill said. 

Romero was close enough so the bull could see him. 
His hand still up, he spoke to the bull. The bull gathered 
himself, then his head went forward and he went over 
slowly, then all over, suddenly, four feet in the air. 

They handed the sword to Romero, and carrying it 
blade down, the muleta in his other hand, he walked 
over to in front of the President’s box, bowed, straight¬ 
ened, and came over to the barrera and handed over 
the sword and muleta. 

“Bad one,” said the sword-handler. 

“He made me sweat,” said Romero. He wiped off 
his face. The sword-handler handed him the water-jug. 
Romero wiped his lips. It hurt him to drink out of the 
jug. He did not look up at us. 

Marcial had a big day. They were still applauding 
him when Romero’s last bull came in. It was the bull 
that had sprinted out and killed the man in the morning 

During Romero’s first bull his hurt face had been 
very noticeable. Everything he did showed it. All the 
concentration of the awkwardly delicate working with 
the bull that could not see well brought it out. The fight 
i^vith Cohn had not touched his spirit but his face had 
been smashed and his body hurt. He was wiping all 
that out now. Each thing that he did with this bull 
wiped that out a little cleaner. It was a good bull, a 
big bull, and with horns, and it turned and recharged 
easily and surely. He was what Romero wanted in bulls. 

When he had finished his work with the muleta and 



was ready to kill, the crowd made him go on. They did 
not want the bull killed yet, they did not want it to be 
over. Romero went on. It was like a course in bull¬ 
fighting. Alt' the passes he linked up, all completed, all 
slow, templed and smooth. There were no tricks and 
no mystifications. There was no brusqueness. And each 
pass as it reached the summit gave you a sudden ache 
inside. The crowd did not want it ever to be finished. 

The bull was squared on all four feet to be killed, and 
Romero killed directly below us. He killed not as he 
had been forced to by the last bull, but as he wanted 
to. He profiled directly in front of the bull, drew the 
sword out of the folds of the muleta and sighted along 
the blade. The bull watched him. Romero spoke to the 
bull and tapped one of his feet. The bull charged and 
Romero waited for the charge, the muleta held low, sight¬ 
ing along the blade, his feet firm. Then without taking 
a step forward, he became one with the bull, the sword 
was in high between the shoulders, the bull had followed 
the low-swung flannel, that disappeared as Romero 
lurched clear to the left, and it was over. The bull tried 
to go forward, his legs commenced to settle, he swung 
from side to side, hesitated, then went down on his knees, 
and Romero’s older brother leaned forward behind him 
and drove a short knife into the bull’s neck at the base 
of the horns. The first time he missed. He drove the 
knife in again, and the bull went over, twitching and 
rigid. Romero’s brother, holding the bull’s horn in one 
hand, the knife in the other, looked up at the President’s 
box. Handkerchiefs were waving all over the bull-ring. 
The President looked down from the box and waved 
his handkerchief. The brother cut the notched black 
ear from the dead bull and trotted over with it to Ro¬ 
mero. The bull lay heavy and black on the sand, hi? 



tongue out. Boys were running toward him from all 
parts of the arena, making a little circle around him. 
They were starting to dance around the bull. 

Romero took the ear from his brother and held it up 
toward the President. The President bowed and Ro¬ 
mero, running to get ahead of the crowd, came toward 
us. He leaned up against the barrera and gave the ear 
to Brett. He nodded his head and smiled. The crowd 
were all about him. Brett held down the cape. 

“You liked it?” Romero called. 

Brett did not say anything. They looked at each 
other and smiled. Brett had the ear in her hand. 

“ Don't get bloody,” Romero said, and grinned. The 
crowd wanted him. Several boys shouted at Brett. The 
crowd was the boys, the dancers, and the drunks. Ro¬ 
mero turned and tried to get through the crowd. They 
were all around him trying to lift him and put him on 
their shoulders. He fought and twisted away, and 
started running, in the midst of them, toward the exit. 
He did not want to be carried on people’s shoulders. 
But they held him and lifted him. It was uncomfort¬ 
able and his legs were spraddled and his body was very 
sore. They were lifting him and all running toward the 
gate. He had his hand on somebody’s shoulder. He 
looked around at us apologetically. The crowd, run¬ 
ning, went out the gate with him. 

We all three went back to the hotel. Brett went up¬ 
stairs. Bill and I sat in the down-stairs dining-room and 
ate some hard-boiled eggs and drank several bottles of 
beer. Belmonte came down in his street clothes with 
his manager and two other men. They sat at the next 
table and ate. Belmonte ate very little. They were 
leaving on the seven o'clock train for Barcelona. Bel¬ 
monte wore a blue-striped shirt and a dark suit, and ate 


soft-boiled eggs. The others ate a big meal. Belmonte 
did not talk. He only answered questions. 

Bill was tired after the bull-fight. So was I. We both 
took a bull-fight very hard. We sat and ate the eggs and 
I watched Belmonte and the people at his table. The 
men with him were tough-looking and businesslike. 

“Come on over to the caf6,” Bill said. “I want an 

It was the last day of the fiesta. Outside it was be¬ 
ginning to be cloudy again. The square was full of peo¬ 
ple and the fireworks experts were making up their set 
pieces for the night and covering them over with beech 
branches. Boys were watching. We passed stands of 
rockets with long bamboo stems. Outside the cafe there 
was a great crowd. The music and the dancing were 
going on. The giants and the dwarfs were passing. 

“Where’s Edna?” I asked Bill. 

“I don’t know.” 

We watched the beginning of the evening of the last 
night of the fiesta. The absinthe made everything seemi 
better. I drank it without sugar in the dripping glass, i 
and it was pleasantly bitter. 

“I feel sorry about Cohn,” Bill said. “He had an 
awful time.” 

“Oh, to hell with Cohn/' I said Vo 

“Where do you suppose he went?” 

“Up to Paris.” 

“What do you suppose he’ll do?” 

“Oh, to hell with him.” TB ! 

“What do you suppose he’ll do?” 

“Pick up with his old girl, probably.” 

“Who was his old girl?” 

“Somebody named Frances.” 

We had another absinthe. 



. “When do you go back?” I asked, 
p “To-morrow.” 

y After a little while Bill said: “Well, it was a swell 

Yes,” I said; “something doing all the time.” 

“You wouldn't believe it. ItTliEe awradSrlul'mght- 

“Sure,” I said. “I’d believe anything. Including 

“What’s the matter? Feel low?” 

“Low as hell.” 

“Have another absinthe. Here, waiter! Another 
absinthe for this seiior.” 

$&“ I feel like hell,” I said. 

“Drink that,’’'said BUT “Drink it slow.” 

It was beginning to get dark The fiesta was going on. 
I began to feel drunk but I did not feel any better. 
“How do you feel?” 

“I feel like hell.” 

“Have another?” 

“It won’t do any good.” 

“Try it. You can’t tell; maybe this is the one that 
gets it. Hey, waiter! Another absinthe for this senor!” 

I poured the water directly into it and stirred it in¬ 
stead of letting it drip. Bill put in a lump of ice. I 
stirred the ice around with a spoon in the brownish, 
cloudy mixture. 

“How is it?” 


“Don’t drink it fast that way. It will make you 

I set down the glass. I had not meant to drink it fast. 
“I feel tight.” 



“That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” 

“Sure. Get tight. Get over your damn depression.’* 

“Well, I’m tight. Is that what you want?” 

“Sit down.” 

“I won’t sit down,” I said. “I’m going over to the 

I was very drunk. I was drunker than I ever remem¬ 
bered having been. At the hotel I went up-stairs. Brett’s 
door was open. I put my head in the room. Mike was 
sitting on the bed. He waved a bottle. 

^Jake,” he said. “Come in, Jake.” 

I went in and sat down. The room was unstable un¬ 
less I looked at some fixed point. 

“Brett, you know. She’s gone off with the bull¬ 
fighter chap.” 


“ Yes. She looked for you to say good-bye. They went 
®n the seven o’clock train.” 

“Did they?” 

“Bad thing to do,” Mike said. “She shouldn’t have ^2 
done it.” 


“Have a drink? Wait while I ring for some beer.” 

“I’m drunk,” I said. “I’m going in and lie down.” 

“Are you blind? I was blind myself.” 

“Yes,” I said, “I’m blind.” 

‘ * Well, bung-o/’ Mike said. “Get some ^le ep^^okL/* 

I went out the door and into my own room and la) 
on the bed. The bed went sailing off and I sat up in 
bed and looked at the wall to make it stop. Outside in 
the square the fiesta was going on. It did not mean 
anything. Later Bill and Mike came in to get me to 
go down and eat with them. I pretended to be asleep. 



“He’s asleep. Better let him alone.” 

“He’s blind as a tick,” Mike said. They went out. 

I got up and went to the balcony and looked out at 
the dancing in the square. The world was not wheeling 
any more. It was just very clear and bright, and in¬ 
clined to blur at the edges. I washed, brushed my hair. 
I looked strange to myself in the glass, and went down¬ 
stairs to the dining-room. 

“Here he is!” said Bill. “Good old Jake! I knew 
you wouldn’t pass out.” 

“Hello, you old drunk,” Mike said. 

“I got hungry and woke up.” 

“Eat some soup,” Bill said. 

e three of us sat at the table, and it seemed as 

though about six people were missing. 


" r 



In the morning it was all over. The fiesta was fin¬ 
ished. I woke about nine o'clock, had a bath, dressed, 
and went down-stairs. The square was empty and there 
were no people on the streets. A few children were pick¬ 
ing up rocket-sticks in the square. The cafes were just 
opening and the waiters were carrying out the com¬ 
fortable white wicker chairs and arranging them around 
the marble-topped tables in the shade of the arcade. 
They were sweeping the streets and sprinkling them 
with a hose. 

I sat in one of the wicker chairs and leaned back com¬ 
fortably. The waiter was in no hurry to come. The 
white-paper announcements of the unloading of the bulls 
and the big schedules of special trains were still up on 
the pillars of the arcade. A waiter wearing a blue apron 
came out with a bucket of water and a cloth, and com¬ 
menced to tear down the notices, pulling the paper off 
in strips and washing and rubbing away the paper that 
stuck to the stone. The fiesta was over. 

I drank a coffee and after a while Bill came over. I 
watched him come walking across the square. He sat 
down at the table and ordered a coffee. 

“Well," he said, “it's all over." 

“Yes," I said. “When do you go?" 

“I don't know. We better get a car, I think. Aren't 
you going back to Paris?" 

✓'“No. I can stay away another week. I think I'll go 
to San Sebastian " 

“I want to get back." 




“What’s Mike going to do?” 

“He’s going to Saint Jean de Luz.” 

“Let’s get a car and all go as far as Bayonne. You 
can get the train up from there to-night.” 

“Good. Let’s go after lunch.” 

“All right. I’ll get the car.” 

We had lunch and paid the bill. Montoya did not 
come near us. One of the maids brought the bill. The 
car was outside. The chauffeur piled and strapped the 
bags on top of the car and put them in beside him in 
the front seat and we got in. The car went out of the 
square, along through the side streets, out under the 
trees and down the hill and away from Pamplona. It 
did not seem like a very long ride. Mike had a bottle 
of Fundador. I only took a couple of drinks. We came 
over t e mountains and out of Spain and down the 
white roads and through the overfoliaged, wet, green, 
Basque country, and finally into Bayonne. We left Bill’s 
baggage a the station, and he bought a ticket to Paris. 
His train left at seven-ten. We came out of the station. 
The car was standing out in front. 

“What shall we do about the car?” Bill asked. 

“Oh, bother the car,” Mike said. “Let’s just keep 
the car with us.” 

“All right,” Bill said. “Where shall we go?” 

“Let’s go to Biarritz and have a drink.” 

“Old Mike the spender,” Bill said. 

We drove in to Biarritz and left the car outside a 
very Ritz place. We went into the bar and sat on high 
stools and drank a whiskey and soda. 

“That drink’s mine,” Mike said. 

“Let’s roll for it.” 

So we rolled poker dice out of a deep leather dice- 
cup. Bill was out first roll. Mike lost to me and handed 



the bartender a hundred-franc note. The whiskeys were 
twelve francs apiece. We had another round and Mike 
lost again. Each time he gave the bartender a good tip. 
In a room off the bar there was a good jazz band play¬ 
ing. It was a pleasant bar. We had another round. I 
went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill and Mike 
rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won 
the second. On the final roll Mike had three kings and 
let them stay. He handed the dice-cup to Bill. Bill 
rattled them and rolled, and there were three kings, an 
ace, and a queen. 

“ It’s yours, Mike,” Bill said. “ Old Mike, the gambler.” 

“I'm so sorry,” Mike said. “I can’t get it.” 

“What’s the matter?” 

“I’ve no money,” Mike said. “I’m stony. I’ve just 
twenty francs. Here, take twenty francs.” 

Bill’s face sort of changed. 

“I just had enough to pay Montoya. Damned lucky 
to have it, too.” 

“I’ll cash you a check,” Bill saia. 

“That’s damned nice of you, but you see I can’t 
write checks.” 

“What are you going to do for money?” 

“Oh, some will come through. I’ve two weeks allow¬ 
ance should be here. I can live on tick at this pub in 
Saint Jean.” 

“What do you want to do about the car?” Bill asked 
me. “Do you want to keep it on?” 

“ It doesn’t make any difference. Seems sort of idiotic.” 

“Come on, let’s have another drink,” Mike said. 

“Fine. This one is on me,” Bill said. “Has Brett any 
money?” He turned to Mike. 

“I shouldn’t think so. She put up most of what I 
gave to old Montoya.” 



“She hasn't any money with her?" I asked. 

“I shouldn't think so. She never has any money. 
She gets five hundred quid a year and pays three hun¬ 
dred and fifty of it in interest to Jews." 

“I suppose they get it at the source," said Bill. 

“Quite. They're not really Jews. We just call them 
Jews. They're Scotsmen, I believe." 

“Hasn't she any at all with her?" I asked. 

“I hardly think so. She gave it all to me when she 

“Well," Bill said, “we might as well have another 

“Damned good idea," Mike said. “One never gets 
anywhere by discussing finances." 

“No," said Bill. Bill and I rolled for the next two 
rounds. Bill lost and paid. We went out to the car. 

“Anywhere you’d like to go, Mike?" Bill asked. 

“Let's take a drive. It might do my credit good. 
Let's drive about a little." 

“Fine. I'd like to see the coast. Let's drive down 
toward Hendaye." 

“I haven't any credit along the coast." 

“You can't ever tell," said Bill. 

We drove out along the coast road. There was the 
green of the headlands, the white, red-roofed villas, 
patches of forest, and the ocean very blue with the tide 
out and the water curling far out along the beach. We 
drove through Saint Jean de Luz and passed through 
villages farther down the coast. Back of the rolling 
country we were going through we saw the mountains 
we had come over from Pamplona. The road went on 
ahead. Bill looked at his watch. It was time for us to 
go back. He knocked on the glass and told the driver 
to turn around. The driver backed the car out into the 



grass to turn it. In back of us were the woods, below a 
stretch of meadow, then the sea. 

At the hotel where Mike was going to stay in Saint 
Jean we stopped the car and he got out. Thechauf- 1 
feur carried in his bags. Mike stood by the side of the 

“ Good-bye, you chaps,” Mike said. “It was a damned 
fine fiesta.” 

“So long, Mike,” Bill said. 

“I’ll see you around,” I said. 

“Don’t worry about money,” Mike said. “You can 
pay for the car, Jake, and I’ll send you my share.” 

“So long, Mike.” 

“So long, you chaps. You've been damned nice.” 

We all shook hands. We waved from the car to Mike. 
He stood in the road watching. We got to Bayonne just 
before the train left. A porter carried Bill's bags in 
from the consigne. I went as far as the inner gate to the 

“So long, fella,” Bill said. 

“So long, kid!” 

“It was swell. I've had a swell time.”€i 

“Will you be in Paris 

“No. I have to sail on the 17 th. So long, fella!” 
“So long, old kid ! ”*73 

He went in through the gate to the train. The porter 
went ahead with the bags. I watched the train pull out. 
Bill was at one of the windows. The window passed, the 
rest of the train passed, and the tracks were empty. L 
went outside to the car. 

“How much do we owe you?” I asked the driver. 
The price to Bayonne had been fixed at a hundred and 
fifty pesetas. 

“Two hundred pesetas.” 



“How much more will it be if you drive me to S«a 
Sebastian on your way back?” 

“Fifty pesetas.” 

“Don’t kid me.” 

“Thirty-five pesetas.” 

“It’s not worth it,” I said. “Drive me to the Hotel 
Panier Fleuri.” 

At the hotel I paid the driver and gave him a tip. 
The car was powdered with dust. I rubbed the rod-case 
through the dust. It seemed the last thing that con¬ 
nected me with Spain and the fiesta. The driver put 
the car in gear and went down the street. I watched it 
turn off to take the road to Spain. I went into the hotel 
and they gave me a room. It was the same room I had 
slept in when Bill and Cohn and I were in Bayonne. 
That seemed a very long time ago. I washed, changed 
my shirt, and went out in the town. 

At a newspaper kiosque I bought a copy of the New 
York Herald and sat in a cafe to read it. It felt strange 
to be in France again. There was a safe, suburban feel¬ 
ing. I wished I had gone up to Paris with Bill, except 
that Paris would have meant more fiesta-ing. I was 
l^Erough with fiestas for a while. It would be quiet in 
San Sebastian. The season does not open there until 
August. I could get a good hotel room and read and 
swim. There was a fine beach there. There were won- 
derfultreesjdong the promenade aboveTKe” beach, and 
there were many children sent down with their nurses 
before the season opened. In the evening there would be 
band concerts under the trees across from the Cafc 
Marinas. I could sit in the Marinas and listen. 

“How does one eat inside?” I asked the waiter. In¬ 
side the cafe was a restaurant. 

“Well. Very well. One eats very well.” 


2 43 


I went in and ate dinner. It was a big meal for France 
but it seemed very carefully apportioned after Spain. 
I drank a bottle of wine for company. It was a Chiteau 
Margaux. It was pleasant to be drinking s'owly and to 
be tasting the wine and to be drinking alone. A bottle 
of wine was good company. Afterward I had coffee. 
The waiter recommended a Basque liqueur called Izzarra. 
He brought in the bottle and poured a liqueur-glass full. 
He said Izzar. a was made of the flowers of the Pyrenees. 
The veritable flowers of the Pyrenees. It looked like 
hair-oil and smelled like Italian slrega. I told him to 
take the flowers of the Pyrenees away and bring me a 
vieux marc. The marc was good. I had a second marc 
after the coffee. 

The waiter seemed a little offended about the flowers 
of the Pyrenees, so I overtipped him. That made him 
happy. It felt comfortable to be in a country where it 
is so simple to make people happy. You can never tell 
whether a Spanish waiter will thank you. Everything is' 
on such a clear financial basis in France. It is the sim¬ 
plest country to live in. No one makes things compli¬ 
cated by becoming your friend for any obscure reason. 
If you want people to like you you have only to spend 
a little money. I spent a little money and the waiter 
liked me. He appreciated .my valuable qualities. He 
would be glad to see me back. I would dine there again 
some time and he would be glad to see me, and would 
want me at his table. It would be a sincere liking be¬ 
cause it would have a sound basis. I was back in France. 

Next morning I tipped every one a little too much at 
the hotel to make more friends, and left on the morning 
train for San Sebastian. At the station I did not tip 
the porter more than I should because I did not think 



I would ever see him again. I only wanted a few good 
French friends in Bayonne to make me welcome in 
case I should come back there again. I knew that if 
they remembered me their friendship would be loyal. 

At Irun we had to change trains and show passports. 
I hated to leave France. Life was so simple in France. 
I felt I was a fool to be going back into Spain. In Spain 
yoji' could not tell about anything. I felt like a fool to 
&e going back into it, but I stood in line with my pass¬ 
port, opened my bags for the customs, bought a ticket, 
went through a gate, climbed onto the train, and after 
forty minutes and eight tunnels I was at San Sebastian. 

Even on a hot day San Sebastian has a certain early- 
morning quality. The trees seem as though their leaves 
were never quite dry. The streets feel as though they 
had just been sprinkled. It is always cool and shady 
on certain streets on the hottest day. I went to a hotel 
in the town where I had stopped before, and they gave 
me a room with a balcony that opened out above the 
roofs of the town. There was a green mountainside be¬ 
yond the roofs. 

I unpacked my bags and stacked my books on the 
table beside the head of the bed, put out my shaving 
things, hung up some clothes in the big armoire, and 
made up a bundle for the laundry. Then I took a shower 
in the bathroom and went down to lunch. Spain had 
not changed to summer-time, so I was early. I set my 
watch again. I had recovered an hour by coming to 
San Sebastian. 

As I went into the dining-room the concierge brought 
me a police bulletin to fill out. I signed it and asked 
him for two telegraph forms, and wrote a message to the 
Hotel Montoya, telling them to forward all mail and 
telegrams for me to this address. I calculated how many 



days I would be in San Sebastian and then wrote out 
a wire to the office asking them to hold mail, but for¬ 
ward all wires for me to San Sebastian for six days. 
Then I went in and had lunch. 

After lunch I went up to my room, read a while, and 
went to sleep. When I woke it was half past four. I 
found my swimming-suit, wrapped it with a comb in a 
towel, and went down-stairs and walked up the street 
to the Concha. The tide was about half-way out. The 
beach was smooth and firm, and the sand yellow. I 
went into a bathing-cabin, undressed, put on my suit, 
and walked across the smooth sand to the sea. The sand 
was warm under bare feet. There were quite a few people 
in the water and on the beach. Out beyond where the 
headlands of the Concha almost met to form the har¬ 
bor there was a white line of breakers and the open sea. 
Although the tide was going out, there were a few slow 
rollers. They came in like undulations in the water, 
gathered weight of water, and then broke smoothly on 
the warm sand. I waded out. The water was cold. As 
a roller came I dove, swam out under water, and came 
to the surface with all the chill gone. I swam out to the 
raft, pulled myself up, and lay on the hot planks. A 
boy and girl were at the other end. The girl had un¬ 
done the top strap of her bathing-suit and was browning 
her back. The boy lay face downward on the raft and 
talked to her. / She laughed at things he said, and turned 
her brown back in the sun?} I lay on the raft in the sun 
until I was dry. Then I tried several dives. I dove deep 
once, swimming down to the bottom. I swam with my 
eyes open and it was green and dark. The raft made a 
dark shadow. I came out of water beside the raft, 
pulled up, dove once more, holding it for length, and 
then swam ashore. I lay on the beach until I was dry. 



then went into the bathing-cabin, took off my suit, 
sloshed myself with fresh water, and rubbed dry. 

I walked around the harbor under the trees to the 
casino, and then up one of the cool streets to the Cafe 
Marinas. There was an orchestra playing inside the 
cafe and I sat out on the terrace and enjoyed the fresh 
coolness in the hot day, and had a glass of lemon-juice 
and shaved ice and then a long whiskey and soda. I 
sat in front of the Marinas for a long time and read and 
watched the people, and listened to the music. 

Later when it began to get dark, I walked around the 
harbor and out along the promenade, and finally back 
to the hotel for supper. There was a bicycle-race on, 
the Tour du Pays Basque, and the riders were stopping 
that night in San Sebastian. In the dining-room, at one 
side, there was a long table of bicycle-riders, eating with 
their trainers and managers. They were all French and 
Belgians, and paid close attention to their meal, but 
they were having a good time. At the head of the table 
were two good-looking French girls, with much Rue du 
Faubourg Montmartre chic. I could not make out 
whom they belonged to. They all spoke in slang at the 
long table and there were many private jokes and some 
jokes at the far end that were not repeated when the 
girls asked to hear them. The next morning at five 
o’clock the race resumed with the last lap, San Sebastian- 
Bilbao. The bicycle-riders drank much wine, and were 
burned and browned by the sun. They did not take the 
race seriously except among themselves. They had raced 
among themselves so often that it did not make much 
difference who won. Especially in a foreign country. 
The money could be arranged. 

The man who had a matter of two minutes lead in the 
race had an attack of boils, which were very painful. 



He sat on the small of his back. His neck was very red 
and the blond hairs were sunburned. The other riders 
joked him about his boils. He tapped on the table with 
his fork. r 

“Listen/’ he said, “to-morrow my nose is so tight on 
the handle-bars that the only thing touches those boils 
is a lovely breeze.” 

One of the girls looked at him down the table, and he 
grinned and turned red. The Soaniards, they said, did 
not know how to pedal. 

I had coffee out on the terrasse with the team manager 
of one of the big bicycle manufacturers. He said it had 
been a very pleasant race, and would have been worth 
watching if Bottechia had not abandoned it at Pamplona. 
The dust had been bad, but in Spain the roads were 
better than in France. Bicycle road-racing was the only 
sport in the world, he said. Had I ever followed the 
Tour de France? Only in the papers. The Tour de 
France was the greatest sporting event in the world. 
Following and organizing the road races had made him 
know France. Few people know France. All spring and 
all summer and all fall he spent on the road with bicycle 
road-racers. Look at the number of motor-cars now that 
followed the riders from town to town in a road race. It 
was a rich country and more sportif every year. It would 
be the most sportif country in the world. It was bicycle 
road-racing did it. That and football. He knew France. 
La France Sportive. He knew road-racing. We had a 
cognac. After all, though, it wasn’t bad to get back to 
Paris. There is only one Paname. In all the world, that 
is. Paris is the town the most sportif in the world. Did I 
know the Chope de Negre 2 Did I not. I would see him 
there some time. I certainly would. We would drink 
another fine together. We certainly would. They started 



at six o’clock less a quarter in the morning. Would I 
be up for the depart ? I would certainly try to. Would 
I like him to call me ? It was very interesting. I would 
leave a call at the desk. He would not mind calling me. 
I could not let him take the trouble. I would leave a 
call at the desk. We said good-bye until the next morn¬ 

In the morning when I awoke the bicycle-riders and 
their following cars had been on the road for three hours. 
I had coffee and the papers in bed and then dressed and 
took my bathing-suit down to the beach. Everything 
was fresh and cool and damp in the early morning. 
Nurses in uniform and in peasant costume walked under 
the trees with children. The Spanish children were beau¬ 
tiful. Some bootblacks sat together under a tree talk¬ 
ing to a soldier. The soldier had only one arm. The tide 
was in and there was a good breeze and a surf on the 
beach, j 

I undressed in one of the bath-cabins, crossed the 
narrow line of beach and went into the water. I swam 
out, trying to swim through the rollers, but having to 
dive sometimes. Then in the quiet water I turned and 
floated, ^floating 1 saw only the sky, and felt the drop 
and lift of the swells^ swam back to the surf and coasted 
in, face down, on a big roller, then turned and swam, 
trying to keep in the trough and not have a wave break 
over me. It made me tired, swimming in the trough, 
and I turned and swam out to the raft. The water was 
buoyant and cold. It felt as though you could never 
sink. I swam slowly, it seemed like a long swim with the 
high tide, and then pulled up on the raft and sat, drip¬ 
ping, on the boards that were becoming hot in the sun. 
I looked around at the bay, the old town, the casino, 
the line of trees along the promenade, and the big hotels 



with their white porches and gold-lettered names. Off 
on the right, almost closing the harbor, was a green hill 
with a castle. The raft rocked with the motion of the 
water. On the other side of the narrow gap that led into 
the open sea was another high headland. I thought I 
would like to swim across the bay but I was afraid of 

I sat in the sun and watched the bathers on the beach. 
They looked very small. After a while I stood up, 
gripped with my toes on the edge of the raft as it tipped 
with my weight, and dove cleanly and deeply, to come 
up through the lightening water, blew the salt water 
out of my head, and swam slowly and steadily in to 

After I was dressed and had paid for the bath-cabin, I 
walked back to the hotel. The bicycle-racers had left 
several copies of VAuto around, and I gathered them 
up in the reading-room and took them out and sat in an 
easy chair in the sun to read about and catch up on 
French sporting life. While I was sitting there the con¬ 
cierge came out with a blue envelope in his hand. 

“A telegram for you, sir.” 

I poked my finger along under the fold that was fast¬ 
ened down, spread it open, and read it. It had been for¬ 
warded from Paris: 



I tipped the concierge and read the message again. 
A postman was coming along the sidewalk. He turned 
in the hotel. He had a big moustache and looked very 
military. He came out of the hotel again. The concierge 
was just behind him. 

“Here’s another telegram for you, sir.” 



“Thank you,” I said. 

I opened it. It was forwarded from Pamplona. 



The concierge stood there waiting for another tip, 

“What time is there a train for Madrid?” 

“It left at nine this morning. There is a slow train at 
eleven, and the Sud Exoress at ten to-night.” 

“Get me a berth on the Sud Express. Do you want 
the money now?” 

“Just as you wish,” he said. “I will have it put on 
the biU.” 

“Do that.” 

Well, that meant San Sebastian all shot to hell. I 
suppose, vaguely, I had expected something of the sort. 
I saw the concierge standing in the doorway. 

“Bring me a telegram form, please.” 

He brought it and I took out my fountain-pen and 


That seemed to handle it. That was it. Send a girl 
off with one man. Introduce her to another to go off 
with him. Now go and bring her back. And sign the 
wire with love. That was it all right. I went in to lunch. 

I did not sleep much that night on the Sud Express. 
In the morning I had breakfast in the dining-car and 
watched the rock and pine country between Avila and 
Escorial. I saw the Escorial out of the window, gray 
and long and cold in the sun, and did not give a damn 



about it. I saw Madrid come up over the plain, a com¬ 
pact white sky-line on the top of a little cliff away off 
across the sun-hardened country. 

The Norte station in Madrid is the end of the line. 
All trains finish there. They don’t go on anywhere. 
Outside were cabs and taxis and a line of hotel runners. 
It was like a country town. I took a taxi and we climbed 
up through the gardens, by the empty palace and the 
unfinished church on the edge of the cliff, and on up 
until we were in the high, hot, modern town. The taxi 
coasted down a smooth street to the Puerta del Sol, and 
then through the traffic and out into the Carrera San 
Jeronimo. All the shops had their awnings down against 
the heat. The windows on the sunny side of the street 
were shuttered. The taxi stopped at the curb. I saw 
the sign hotel Montana on the second floor. The 
taxi-driver carried the bags in and left them by the ele¬ 
vator. I could not make the elevator work, so I walked 
up. On the second floor up was a cut brass sign: 
hotel Montana. I rang and no one came to the door. 
I rang again and a maid with a sullen face opened the 

“Is Lady Ashley here?” I asked. 

She looked at me dully. 

“Is an Englishwoman here?” 

She turned and called some one inside. A very fat 
woman came to the door. Her hair was gray and stiffly 
oiled in scallops around her face. She was short and 

“Muy buenos,” I said. “Is there an Englishwoman 
here? I would like to see this English lady.” 

“Muy buenos. Yes, there is a female English. Cer¬ 
tainly you can see her if she wishes to see you.” 

“She wishes to see me.” 



“The chica will ask her.” 

“It is very hot.” 

“It. is very hot in the summer in Madrid.” 

“And how cold in winter.” 

“Yes, it is very cold in winter.” 

Did I want to stay myself in person in the Hotel 
Montana ? 

Of that as yet I was undecided, but it would give me 
pleasure if my bags were brought up from the ground 
floor in order that they might not be stolen. Nothing 
was ever stolen in the Hotel Montana. In other fondas, 
yes. Not here. No. The personages of this establish¬ 
ment were rigidly selectioned. I was happy to hear it. 
Nevertheless I would welcome the upbringal of my bags. 

The maid came in and said that the female En glish 
wanted to see the male English now, at once. 

“Good,” I said. “You see. It is as I said.” 


I followed the maid’s back down a long, dark corridor. 
At the end she knocked on a door. 

“Hello,” said Brett. “Is it you, Take?” 

“It’s me.” 

“Come in. Come in.” 

I opened the door. The maid closed it after me. Brett 
was in bed. She had just been brushing her hair and 
held the brush in her hand. The room was in that dis¬ 
order produced only by those who have always had 

“Darling!” Brett said. 

I went over to the bed and put my arms around her. 
She kissed me, and while she kissed me I could feel she 
-was thinking of something else. She was trembling in 
my arms. She felt very small. 

“Darling! I’ve had such a hell of a time.” 


2 S 3 

“Tell me about it.” 

“Nothing to tell. He only left yesterday. I made 
him go.” 

“Why didn’t you keep him?” 

“I don’t know. It isn’t the sort of thing one does. I 
don’t think I hurt him any.” 

“You were probably damn good for him.” 

“He shouldn’t be living with any one. 1 realized that 
right away.” 


“Oh, hell!” she said, “let’s not talk about it. Let’s 
never talk about it.” 

“All right.” 

“It was rather a knock his being ashamed of me. He 
was ashamed of me for a while, you know.” 


“Oh, yes. They ragged him about me at the caf6, I 
guess. He wanted me to grow my hair out. Me, with 
long hair. I’d look so like hell.” 

“It’s funny.” 

“He said it would make me more womanly. I’d look 
a fright.” 

“What happened?” 

, “Oh, he got over that. He wasn’t ashamed of me 

“What was it about being in trouble?” 

“I didn’t know whether I could make him go, and I 
didn’t have a sou to go away and leave him. He tried 
to give me a lot of money, you know. I told him I had 
scads of it. He knew that was a lie. I couldn’t take his 
money, you know.” 


“Oh, let s not talk about it. There were some funny 
things, though. Do give me a cigarette.” £ 

2 54 


I lit the cigarette. 

“He learned his English as a waiter in Gib.” 


“He wanted to marry me, finally.” 


“Of course. I can’t even marry Mike.” 

“Maybe he thought that would make him Lord 

“No. It wasn’t that. He really wanted to marry me. 
So I couldn’t go away from him, he said. He wanted to 
make it sure I could never go away from him. After I’d 
rotten more womanly, of course.” 

“You ought to feel set up.” 

“I do. I’m all right again. He’s wiped out that 
damned Cohn.” 


“You know I’d have lived with him if I hadn’t seen 
it was bad for him. We got along damned well.” 
“Outside of your personal appearance.” 

“Oh, he’d have gotten used to that.” 

She put out the cigarette. 

“ I’m thirty-four, you know. I’m not going to be o ne 

of these bitches that ruins children.” 

“ I’m not going to be that wav. I feel rather good, y ou 
know. I feel rather set up.” 

“Good.” " ~ 

She looked away. I thought she was looking for an¬ 
other cigarette. Then I saw she was crying. I could feel 
her crying. Shaking and crying. She wouldn’t look up. 
I put my arms around her. 

“Don’t let’s ever talk about it. Please don’t let’s ever 
talk about it.” 

“Dear Brett.” 


2 55 

“Ym going back to Mike.” I could feel her crying as 
I held her close. “He’s so damned nice and he’s so awful. 
He’s my sort of thing.” 

She would not look up. I stroked her hair. I could 
feel her shaking. 

“I won’t be one of those bitches,” she said. “But,, 
oh, Jake, please let’s never talk about it.” 

We left the Hotel Montana. The woman who ran the 
hotel would not let me pay the bill. The bill had been 

“Oh, well. Let it go,” Brett said. “It doesn’t matter 

We rode in a taxi down to the Palace Hotel, left the 
bags, arranged for berths on the Sud Express for the 
night, and went into the bar of the hotel for a cocktail. 
We sat on high stools at the bar while the barman shook 
the Martinis in a large nickelled shaker. 

“It’s funny what a wonderful gentility you get in 
the bar of a big hotel,” I said. 

“Barmen and jockeys are the only people who are 
polite any more.” go 

“No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the bar is always 

“It’s odd.” 

“Bartenders have always been fine.” 

“You know,” Brett said, “it’s quite true. He is only 
nineteen. Isn’t it amazing?” 

We touched the two glasses as they stood side by side 
on the bar. They were coldly beaded. Outside the cur¬ 
tained window was the summer heat of Madrid. 

“I like an olive in a Martini,” I said to the barman. 

“Right you are, sir. There you are.” 


“I should have asked, you know.” 




The barman went far enough up the bar so that he 
would not hear our conversation. Brett had sipped from 
the Martini as it stood, on the wood. Then she picked 
it up. Her hand was steady enough to lift it after that 
first sip. 

“It’s good. Isn’t it a nice bar?” 

“They’re all nice bars.” 

“You know I didn’t believe it at first. He was bom 
in 1905. I was in school in Paris, then. Think of that.” 

“Anything you want me to think about it?” 

“Don’t be an ass. Would you buy a lady a drink?” 

“We’ll have two more Martinis.” 

“As they were before, sir?” 

“They were very good.” Brett smiled at him. 

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

“Well, bung-o,” Brett said. 


“You know,” Brett said, “he’d only been with two 
women before. He never cared about anything but bull¬ 

“He’s got plenty of time.” 

“I don’t know. He thinks it was me. Not the show 
in general.” 

“Well, it was you.” 

“Yes. It was me.” 

“I thought you weren’t going to ever talk about 

“How can I help it?” 

“You’ll lose it if you talk about it.” 

“ I just talk around it. You know I feel rather damned 
good, Jake.” 

“You should.” 

“You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not 
to be a bitch.” 


2 57 


“It’s sort of what we have instead of God.” 

“Some people have God,” I said. “Quite a lot.” 

“He never worked very well with me.” 

“Should we have another Martini?” 

The barman shook up two more Martinis and poured 
them out into fresh glasses. 

“Where will we have lunch?” I asked Brett. The 
bar was cool. You could feel the heat outside through 
the window. 

“Here?” asked Brett. 

“It’s rotten here in the hotel. Do you know a place 
called Botin’s?” I asked the barman. 

“Yes, sir. Would you like to have me write out the 
address ? ” 

“Thank you.” 

We lunched up-stairs at Botin’s. It is one of the best 
restaurants in the world. We had roast youngs suckling 
pig and drank rioja alta. §rett did not eat much. She 
never ate much. I ate a very big meal and drank three 
bottles of rioja alta. 

“How do you feel, Jake?” Brett asked. “My God! 
what a meal you’ve eaten.” 

“I feel fine. Do you want a dessert?” 

“Lord, no.” 

Brett was smoking. 

“You like to eat, don’t you?” she said. 

“Yes,” I said. “I like to do a lot of things.” 

“What do you like to do?” 

“Oh,” I said, “I like to do a lot of things. Don’t you 
want a dessert?” 

“You asked me that once,” Brett said. 

“Yes,” I said. “So I did. Let’s have another bottle 
of rioja alta” 



“It’s very good.’’ 

“You haven’t drunk much of it,” I said. 

“I have. You haven’t seen.” 

“Let’s get two bottles,” I said. The bottles came. 1 
poured a little in my glass, then a glass for Brett, then 
filled my glass. We touched glasses. 

“Bung-o!” Brett said. I drank my glass and poured 
out another. Brett put her hand on my arm. 

“Don’t get drunk, Jake,” she said. “You don’t have 

“How do you know?” 

“Don’t,” she said. “You’ll be all right.” 

“I’m not getting drunk,” I said. “I’m just drinking 
a little wine. I like to drink wine.” 

“Don’t get drunk,” she said. “Jake, don’t get drunk.” 

“Want to go for a ride?” I said. “Want to ride 
through the town?” 

“Right,” Brett said. “I haven’t seen Madrid. I 
should see Madrid.” 

“I’ll finish this,” I said. 

Down-stairs we came out through the first-floor din¬ 
ing-room to the street. A waiter went for a taxi. Jd 
was hot and bright. Up the street was a little square 
wifhTfees and grass where there were taxis parked. A 
taxi came up the street, the waiter hanging out at the 
side. I tipped him and told the driver where to drive, 
and got in beside Brett. The driver started up the street. 
I settled back. Brett moved close to me. We sat close 
against each other. I put my arm around her and she 
rested against me comfortably. It was very hot and 
bright, and the houses looked sharply white. We turned 
out onto the Gran Via. 

“Oh, Jake,” Brett said, “we could have had such a 
damned good time together.” 


2 59 

Ahead was a mounted policeman in khaki directing 
traffic. He raised his baton. The car slowed suddenly 
pressing Brett against me. 

“Yes,” I said. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?” 

The End 


3 2775 012 134 22 6 

Sun also rises / 


PS 3515 E37S8 1930 





S8 Hemingway, Ernest * 


The sun also rises.